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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23180230">Deprivation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/pseuds/JenniferNapier'>JenniferNapier</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Liberation [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode Related, Escape, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hallucinations, Martin Escapes, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Nightmares, Sort Of, Surgery</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:53:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,652</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23180230</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/pseuds/JenniferNapier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon Point: After S1 E15 "Death’s Door"</p><p>After waking from his coma, Martin Whitly is transferred back to Claremont Psychiatric Hospital. At least, that was supposed to happen, but the transport van never arrived back at Claremont. Now, Malcolm Bright is on the case to track down his missing father. However, Malcolm doesn’t believe that his father ‘escaped.’ Malcom believes he was kidnapped.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gil Arroyo &amp; Jessica Whitly, Gil Arroyo &amp; Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo &amp; Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright &amp; Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright &amp; Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright &amp; Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright &amp; Paul Lazar | John Watkins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Liberation [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718875</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>161</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My goal for this fic is to keep it short and simple and somewhat fast-paced. We'll see how I do.<br/>I hope you're ready for some 'oh my God, where the hell is Martin' excitement!<br/>Malcolm sure isn't.</p><p>Also, I finally made a Prodigal Son tumblr blog. Check it out if you wanna! https://theresnosuchthingasmonsters.tumblr.com/</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malcolm Bright stood outside the hospital room, ready to say goodbye.</p><p>While their stunt hadn’t necessarily gone wrong, it hadn’t gone right <em> enough. </em> He may have ‘threaded the needle’ and miraculously stabbed the small window of survivability in his father’s heart, but his actions had still put the man in a coma. If the earlier flatline was anything to go off, it wasn't a very stable coma.</p><p>It had been the only way. If Malcolm hadn’t done what he did, then another innocent life would have been lost.</p><p>Through the windows of the door, he could see Martin Whitly lying supine on the hospital bed. The machines steadily continued to beep and monitor his vitals. His chest continued to rise and fall, ever so subtly. Malcolm had never seen his father look so peaceful. So vulnerable. So quiescent. With no smiles or jokes, no teases or lies, no arrogance or acting. Just silence, and stillness. Like he was already a corpse.</p><p>It was almost eerie.</p><p>Malcolm could very well lose him. At any minute. And it would be his fault.</p><p>The profiler had accepted that. He was no longer afraid of death. He’d never been afraid of his own, but his father’s….</p><p>He’d never really thought about what it would be like without him, until recently.</p><p>Malcolm Bright entered the room. After a short while, he spoke.</p><p>“Hello, Doctor Whitly.”</p><p>Malcolm addressed his father’s sleeping form the same way he did when he needed help on a case. Professionally. With a thin layer of respect. And with as much neutrality as he could feign.</p><p>He did not expect his father to return the greeting.</p><p>Dr. Whitly surfaced from his coma right before the profiler’s eyes. An incredible coincidence, or so it seemed. Wasn't it always an incredible coincidence, when it came to The Surgeon?</p><p>As always, his father appeared indescribably happy to see him. He gave his usual greeting. Endearing. Hopeful. And with all of the tenderness he was capable of.</p><p>“My boy.”</p><p>Malcolm didn’t know how to feel. He only watched, and tried to prevent a smile from spreading across his face.</p><p>It was very difficult.</p><p>“Didja catch ‘im?” his father exhaled in a hoarse, drugged lethargy. “The Carousel Killer?”</p><p>Malcolm nodded, struggling to keep his expression under control. It had worked. Their stunt had worked. Corey Wheaton was in custody. Kathy Paul had been recovered. And his father had survived.</p><p>“Good,” Dr. Whitly’s attention drunkenly wandered to the surgical site on his chest. “Otherwise... I don't think this woulda been worth it,” he murmured with as much humor as he could muster.</p><p>Malcolm released a smile, but didn’t commiserate with him. The guards were going about their business in the background behind him; making a call, fetching the nurse.</p><p>With a weary grin, Dr. Whitly purred, “I’m <em> very </em> glad you didn’t kill me. How ironic would <em> that </em> be?” He spoke as if it would have been quite an exciting outcome.</p><p>Malcolm forgave his inappropriate eagerness for what could have been a dark and dismal end to this chapter in their story. “I’m glad too,” the profiler sighed, allowing some of his relief to manifest.</p><p>Martin’s grin faltered as if those words meant something important to him.</p><p>“Glad that my... hands are clean,” Malcolm elaborated with a firm nod.</p><p>Martin’s dreamy expression changed. It twisted as though the profiler’s words gave him a sinister delight. “More or less,” he drawled devilishly.</p><p>Malcolm didn’t appreciate that comment, but he pressed his lips together and ignored it.</p><p>Dr. Whitly lazily smiled at his son, moving on. “I’m very proud of you, Malcolm. You did a fine job.”</p><p>Malcolm shook his head and lowered his gaze, scoffing at the hilariously abnormal situation. No ordinary father would say that after being stabbed by his son. No ordinary son would stab his father.</p><p>But they weren’t ordinary people. That was no secret.</p><p>“You know I was lying, right?”</p><p>Malcolm looked up at his father again. The man looked worried.</p><p>“When I told you it was true. That I brought you camping to kill you.” Dr. Whitly rolled his head back and forth on the pillow as he mumbled between slow breaths, “I was just trying to get you… emotionally riled up. So you could bring yourself to do it.”</p><p>Malcolm waited.</p><p>His father took another long breath and continued to tiredly profess, “I never… ever… intended to kill you. That’s the real truth, Malcolm.”</p><p>Malcolm still didn’t say anything.</p><p>Martin hesitated, but he eventually whispered, “I love you.”</p><p>He didn’t say those three little words as often as a father should. That was probably due to his incorrigible narcissism. And the psychopathy, of course. He’d failed to say them before, on the phone, when his son had been handling a landmine. Martin hadn’t beaten himself up about it too much. He’d known he would have another chance to say it. Malcolm was a smart boy, and he’d had the entire NYPD behind him to keep him from being blown to pieces. But <em> personal </em> near-death experiences, well…. Maybe those were effective against even the most conceited of people.</p><p>Martin was no moron. He knew how close he’d come to not having another chance to say such a thing to his boy.</p><p>The corner of Malcolm’s mouth tugged up in a soft smirk, yet he blinked to keep his eyes clear of excess moisture. “I know.”</p><p>Martin stared at him, soaking in the sight of his son’s face. It brought a renewed life to him.</p><p>There was another reason why Martin didn’t say those three little words too often. It was because he <em> knew </em> that Maclolm knew he loved him. The profiler had always known that. Deep down. Even if he doubted it sometimes.</p><p>For the first time in a very long time, they both genuinely smiled at each other.</p><p>After a moment, Malcolm opened his mouth to say something back, and Martin dared to hope.</p><p>But Malcolm only said, “You’re going to be okay, Doctor Whitly.” </p><p>Those were not the words that Martin had hoped to hear. But that was alright. One day, Malcolm would say it.</p><p>Arrogance returned to the man’s sleepy expression. “That’s gonna disappoint a <em> lot </em> of people.” He spoke as if he was looking forward to it.</p><p>Malcolm chuckled lightly, “Yes, it is.”</p><p>But it didn’t disappoint him.</p><p>The nurse came in, followed by a few other medical professionals. Malcolm excused himself and gave one last nod to his father. “Goodbye, Doctor.”</p><p>Martin gave the profiler another affectionate grin as he watched him leave. “Goodbye, my boy.”</p>
<hr/><p>Malcolm could have lost him, but he didn’t.</p><p>He felt some relief, but he also felt ashamed to feel that relief. Was it wrong to be glad that a serial killer was still alive? Definitely. But that serial killer --for all of his wickedness-- had one single, microscopic good quality about him. He loved his son.</p><p>Perhaps Malcolm was most relieved to be rid of the guilt that hung over his head. He no longer had to bear the blame of what could have been. Now, he could move on and go back to the way things were. Solving cases, saving innocents, capturing criminals, with his father safely locked up in Claremont where he belonged.</p><p>‘Safely,’ as in; for <em> others’ </em> safety. Of course.</p><p>The profiler had faith that Claremont’s security would be heavily fortified from that day forward.</p><p>His faith was misplaced.</p>
<hr/><p>Malcolm startled awake when someone violently burst into his apartment. The broken door clattered as it fell against the hardwood floor, and the pins from its hinges went flying across the room. The shouting was deafening.</p><p>The profiler’s bed restraints snapped as he flailed on instinct, but his drumming heart calmed as he saw that it was only Lieutenant Arroyo, followed by a few other officers.</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Malcolm,” Gil sighed and lowered his handgun. The other officers followed suit, and the room’s tension dropped. “Why didn't you answer my calls!?” </p><p>Malcolm’s expression shifted through three different kinds of confusion as he opened his restraints and glanced at his phone. “I-I was asleep. For once.” Thirteen missed calls and fifteen texts. They’d been banging on his door for ten minutes, and trying to reach him for hours.</p><p>The <em> one </em> time he’d managed to fall into a comatose sleep --which yielded no nightmares, for once-- was the time when the NYPD needed him awake. What a cruel coincidence. For a brief moment, Malcolm wondered <em> why </em> he’d so easily fallen asleep the night prior, and <em> why </em> no nightmares had haunted him this time, but it was a short-lived thought.</p><p>Gil rubbed his forehead and then shrugged in exasperation. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Malcolm asked. Concern brewed beneath his furrowed brows. His adrenaline was pumping through his veins now, and he felt ready for anything.</p><p>Anything, except...</p><p>“It’s your dad.”</p><p>Malcolm’s eyes widened. “What about him?”</p><p>Gil hesitated for a moment, then broke the news. The news that would soon be the headline of every paper and television station in the country.</p><p>“He’s escaped.”</p>
<hr/><p>The lieutenant and the profiler trudged through the hospital, the latter leading. </p><p>“So, we lost him,” Malcolm declared grouchily.</p><p><em> “Somebody </em> sure as hell did,” Gil answered, keeping pace with the profiler’s brisk walk. “He was in custody, boarded the transport van, but the van never reached Claremont.”</p><p>“Did they have a tracker of some sort on the van?” Malcolm hoped.</p><p>“No, because that would have been smart,” Gil grumbled.</p><p>Malcolm strode through the hall that he’d passed through just the other day, but this time with a whole new anxiety bubbling in his chest. His gaping eyes searched every inch of the environment he passed.</p><p>Gil noticed. “Malcolm, there’s no crime scene. There’s nothing for you to analyze here. We’ve already combed through the entire floor.”</p><p>“There’s got to be something,” the profiler muttered stubbornly. “Something your team missed.” He entered the hospital room. The bed was empty and made, ready for the next guest. </p><p>Gil gave him a look, but didn’t mention his arrogance. He understood that this was a stressful situation for the young man.</p><p>Malcolm studied everything in that room. He touched the restraints on the bed. He hovered near the chairs where the guards had sat. He pantomimed through the process of walking The Surgeon out of the room. “How long ago did this happen?”</p><p>“He was picked up early this morning. By the time Claremont raised their concerns, three hours had passed since the van left this hospital.”</p><p>“Three hours?” Malcolm gawked.</p><p>Gil had shared in his shock earlier, but he was over it now. He shrugged with a sigh, “They figured the hold-up was due to traffic. By the time they started calling the individuals who were involved in the transfer, nobody answered.”</p><p>Malcolm wasn't finding any information that could be of use to them, and he was growing more frustrated. “He could be <em> anywhere!” </em></p><p>A new voice entered the conversation. A dull, sarcastic voice. “That’s kinda<em> the problem.” </em></p><p>They turned to see JT enter the room, followed by Dani.</p><p>Malcolm gave up on his fruitless examination of the room and rushed over to join the group. “Who was in the vehicle with him? The two guards that were here, and the driver, right?”</p><p>Dani nodded. “There was an additional guard in the van when it arrived, so that makes four total. We already pulled all the information about them that we could.” She handed the profiler a few folders.</p><p>As Bright flipped through them, JT offered more of his unhelpful attitude. “Four guards, one serial killer, and a full tank of gas. What could go wrong?”</p><p>Malcolm shook his head, scouring through the info sheets of the Claremont employees in charge of his father’s transfer. “He just got out of cardiac surgery, he’s not strong enough to physically overpower anyone.” His scrutinous eyes skimmed through the data and studied the photographs.</p><p>“He’s weak,” the profiler muttered, thinking deeply about his words. “Hurt.”</p><p>Dani watched him closely, and squinted. “Are you saying...?"</p><p>"The guards were in on it. They <em> had </em> to have been,” Malcolm expressed, flipping through the profiles again. The problem was, these men showed no red flags.</p><p>Gil informed him, “We’ve considered that possibility, but these guys have been with Claremont for years. Their records are clean, they’ve never shown a single sign of anything concerning, and they have families at home waiting for them. They have no motive to aid in any kind of escape whatsoever.” The lieutenant concluded, “There is no reason to suspect any involvement on their part."</p><p>For the first time in a long time, Malcolm was stuck. “Are we sure there wasn't a crash on the way to Claremont?” he asked desperately.</p><p>Dani shook her head. “No crash. We’ve explored that possibility too.”</p><p>“The van’s gone poof,” JT pitched in.</p><p>Malcolm gripped the folders in his hands, staring past them at a distant point in the room. That point happened to be the empty hospital bed.</p><p>Gil noticed the concern laced across the young man’s expression and tried to console him. “Don’t worry, kid. We’ll find out what happened to them.”</p><p>Dani furrowed her brows and noticed Malcolm’s anxiety as well. He wasn't usually this quiet when it came to solving a case, and she’d never seen him stumped. He was clearly inexperienced with being stumped, because he appeared like he had no clue what to do. Or think. Or say. She placed a compassionate hand on his shoulder, but gave him a tough squeeze and a light jostle. It brought him out of his hopeless trance, which he appreciated.</p><p>JT also tried to help their friend, and he did so by making a poor joke. “You never told us your dad was a Houdini.”</p><p>Malcolm sighed, canting his head. “He did always like magic tricks.”</p><p>Dr. Whitly used to perform them during Malcolm’s visits, when he was a young teenager. He’d been quite good at sleight of hand, making playing cards disappear. It had always made his guards rather nervous. Malcolm had been too old to be entertained by such silly tricks, but he’d smirked while watching them all the same.</p><p>The criminal profiler’s hard-set expression opened as he realized, “I need more information on those guards. Someone who <em> knew </em> them. Someone who knew <em> my father.” </em></p><p>“I know who I need to talk to!” Malcolm turned to rush out of the hospital, leaving the rest of his team to wonder, roll their eyes, and shake their heads.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malcolm did not have trouble finding the man he was looking for. At least, <em> this </em> man.</p><p>The profiler strode through the halls of Claremont Psychiatrist Hospital as if it were his second home. Mr. David was leaning against the wall near the doorway to the east wing with his arms folded. While wearing a bright smile on his face, Malcolm approached the familiar guard and greeted, “Heyyyy, how-- are you?”</p><p>At the tail end of his greeting, his smile fell and his brow furrowed. He was too far into asking the question to stop. It was clearly a silly question, since Mr. David didn’t look quite as well as usual.</p><p>“Exhausted,” the security officer answered unenthusiastically.</p><p>There was a question written on Malcolm’s face. Mr. David answered that too. “Since your last family reunion, I’ve been reassigned to other patients. Needless to say, they’re not as well-behaved.”</p><p>Malcolm gestured to the man’s damaged face with an empathetic wince. “I can see that.” </p><p>“Dr. Whitly may have never <em> shut up, </em> but at least he never gave me a busted lip.” Mr David grumbled, unfolding his arms with a sigh. “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss him.”</p><p>Malcolm ignored another absurd dash of empathy. “I’m sure you heard the news?” he asked, opening his arms.</p><p>“I did,” Mr. David answered. “I suppose I should be <em> glad </em> they didn’t keep me assigned to him.”</p><p>“Well, these men <em> were.” </em>Malcolm handed over the files of the four guards who had been tasked with the transport. “Did you know them?”</p><p>Mr. David picked through the folders. “A couple of ‘em, yeah. These two. Matt Rochester and Lance Ritter.”</p><p>Malcolm narrowed his eyes and glanced at the papers in the man’s hands. Those were the two guards that had arrived in the van this morning, with Mr. Ritter at the wheel. “Did you happen to see them before they left for the hospital?” Perhaps they had been acting differently than usual, or had given off some kind of clue that things were off.</p><p>“No, I haven’t seen them all week,” Mr. David shook his head and closed the folders before offering them back to the profiler. “Different schedules.”</p><p>But Malcolm did not accept them. “Do you think that there is any possibility that they could have assisted Dr. Whitly in an escape?”</p><p>Mr. David’s eternally bored expression cracked, and now he appeared alarmed. <em> “Assisted him?” </em></p><p>Malcolm nodded.</p><p>“Why would they do a thing like that?”</p><p>Malcolm shrugged. “We don't know. We’re trying to find that out.” The profiler went on to explain, “At the time of his transfer, Dr. Whitly was handcuffed and had no weapons.” Then he amended, “At least, as far the hospital staff were aware.”</p><p>His father had always been good at sleight of hand.</p><p>“Regardless, Dr. Whitly wasn't exactly in any condition to take on four trained guards. He must have had help,” Malcolm theorized, shuffling his hands through the air.</p><p>Mr. David appeared personally betrayed. He glanced at the folders in his hand again, sorrowful to think that one of his colleagues could have taken part in such a thing. “Well I… I really doubt these folks would do somethin’ like that. They're good people. Jerry’s been here longer than I have.”</p><p>The profiler could tell that the man was not concealing anything. Malcolm could also understand his pain. All too often, he’d experienced circumstances that tested his trust of others and made him doubt his beliefs. Especially when heroes were revealed to be villains. “Could there be any chance of... bribery? Blackmail?” he offered, digging for anything that could give them a lead. “They all have families. That can be pretty effective leverage.”</p><p>Mr. David shook his head. “I guess, but, nothin’ that I know about, kid. Sorry.”</p><p>Malcolm sighed and nodded, finally taking the folders back. It seemed that he was met with a dead end once again. Speaking of dead ends…</p><p>The young man couldn’t resist glancing down the hall. After a moment, he gestured and asked, “May I?”</p>
<hr/><p>Lieutenant Arroyo was leaning against the edge of a filing cabinet in his office with his phone angled to his ear. The door was open slightly, allowing the muffled sounds of an overworked and understaffed police station to murmur in the background. But Gil didn’t listen to anything other than the voice in his ear.</p><p>“It’s going to be alright. We’ve got officers placed around your house. Yes, around Ainsley’s too. And her work.” He paused for a brief moment to listen. “Malcolm’s just fine. I went straight to his apartment as soon as I heard about this. Yes. Yes, he was fast asleep, actually. Sleeping a little <em> too </em> well, for once.” A grin spread across aged his face, which so often appeared too tired (especially of everyone’s bullshit) to be capable of smiling anymore.</p><p>But he remembered how to smile when he spoke to her.</p><p>Lieutenant Arroyo’s grin softened, as did his stoic heart. “Yes… I’m okay too,” he answered.</p><p>His tender moment and fragile privacy was shattered when JT strode through the door. The detective stopped himself from asking a question about a folder in his hand just in time. His gob snapped shut as Gil lifted a finger to ask for a moment of his patience.</p><p>“No, he’s not with me now, but he’s--” </p><p>The phone babbled and pleaded.</p><p>“Okay. Okay. I promise. I won’t let him out of my sight,” Gil eased. “You take care, alright? Turn off that stupid TV. I’ll keep you updated with what you need to know. Okay. Bye.”</p><p>JT stared at him as he hung up the call. “Was that who I think it was?”</p><p>Gil sighed and then shook his head. “No.” He gestured to the folder JT held. “You wanted to ask me something?”</p><p>“Yeah, but that can wait. I got <em> another </em> question.” JT used the folder to point at the lieutenant. “Do you have the hots for Miss <em> ‘Ex-Husband’s-A-Serial-Killer?’ </em> Who’s now on the <em> loose?" </em></p><p>Gil remained unfazed and unamused. At least, he tried to. <em> “No.” </em> There was a tone of annoyance and defensiveness in his voice. “I don’t <em> ‘have the hots’ </em> for <em> anyone.” </em></p><p>He was lying like his pants were on fire, and it didn’t take a psychic profiler to figure that one out.</p><p>JT grinned and nodded, as equally impressed as he was concerned. “Daaaang, you’re one brave son of a bitch, Lieutenant.”</p><p>His boss gave him a look.</p><p>JT held up his hands. “No disrespect!”</p><p>Dani poked her head in the doorway.  “Where’s Bright?”</p><p>“I was just going to fetch him,” Gil stood up and reached for his leather jacket.</p><p>“Well, fetch him quick,” she advised. “We’ve got a crime scene.”</p>
<hr/><p>The cell was barren and cold.</p><p>Sunlight still shone through the windows, warming the red walls. The desk and bookshelves were still standing where they’d always stood. Yet the cell was barren and cold. An abandoned carapace. A vacant casket that was meant to hold life, but never again would.</p><p>It felt so strange. Eerie. Lonely. Malcolm looked down at the red line on the ground, which no longer served any purpose. It was entirely insignificant without any threat on the other side of it. Malcolm stepped over the line and walked into the empty center of the room.</p><p>The tether lay coiled on the ground like a deceased serpent.</p><p>The last time Malcolm had been in that room, he’d plunged a ceramic dagger through his father’s chest. He’d felt it scrape against his ribs, puncture into his thoracic cavity, sink into his heart.</p><p>Blood still stained the rug, though it appeared as if it had been attempted to be cleaned. The center of the puddle was faded but a dark outline framed the crusty edge. The fibers of the rug were dyed in shades of dark pink and light brown. Malcolm tried not to stare.</p><p>Instead, he tried to focus. He solved cases by getting into murderers’ heads. Right now, he needed to get into his father’s. It was a frightening concept, but not a completely foreign one. He stood in the middle of the cell and turned to face the door, taking in the perspective that The Surgeon had been confined to for twenty years.</p><p>It was surreal. From that potion, all he could see was the door and the windows. Barriers that he was forbidden to traverse. They framed a sorry sight of more halls and cells --the maze of a prison. The wall loomed behind his back, giving him an ominous feeling of being trapped against it even when it was six feet away. The windows appeared higher the closer he stood to them, the light unobtainable from the shadows.</p><p>For a few moments, Malcolm became lost in the shoes he’d stepped into. </p><p>“You alright?”</p><p>Malcolm whirled around to Mr. David.</p><p>“You’re shaking like a leaf.”</p><p>The profiler glanced down at his hands, clenched his fists, and faked a smile. “I’m fine.”</p><p>Mr. David didn’t appear convinced, but he didn’t push it.</p><p>“Did... Dr. Whitly make <em> friends </em> with any of the guards here?” Malcolm asked, trying to regain his focus. He wanted to leave his father’s space, but something foolish inside of him believed that the longer he stood there, the more he’d grow to understand him-- and therefore discover the explanation for his disappearance.</p><p>“To be honest, the closest thing he had to a friend in here was probably me.” Mr. David admitted with a sigh.</p><p>Malcolm nodded. It made sense. Mr. David had been one of his primary supervisors for twenty years.</p><p>“He talked about you a lot.”</p><p>Malcolm forced another fabricated smile across his face again. “I bet he did.” He glanced across the rug for any clues, ultimately failing to avoid staring at the bloodstain to his right.</p><p>Mr. David chuckled. “I know more about you than I care to.”</p><p>Malcolm huffed a weary laugh. That didn’t surprise him.</p><p>The profiler’s hands still trembled. He appeared frozen where he stood, like a petrified fawn stuck on a highway. All he could do was stare at that stain.</p><p>Mr. David smiled faintly and tried to ease the young man by distracting him from his anxiety with a story he’d heard. “Apparently, when you were seven years old, you wanted a puppy so bad, you convinced one of your friends at school to let you borrow theirs for a day. And you convinced your nanny that your father had given it to you.”</p><p>Malcolm’s eyes settled on Mr. David’s face, and a smile slowly spread across the profiler’s lips. He’d almost forgotten about that memory. </p><p>“When your father came home, he played along to rile up your poor mother,” Mr. David smirked.</p><p>Malcolm grinned and closed his eyes, shaking his head. “That’s right. I did have a puppy for a day. Until mom made me give it back.”</p><p>Mr. David recalled, “You named him Jack.”</p><p>They both chuckled in unison, “Jack the Jack Russel terrier.”</p><p>Malcolm held his hands up. They were no longer trembling. “Not very creative, I know.” He justified his lack of creativity by claiming, “I didn’t have much time to think of one.”</p><p>They smiled and lived in the humor of the tale for a moment, until Malcolm joked, “I’m sure you know my <em> entire </em>childhood.”</p><p>That got him thinking.</p><p>Hesitantly, he asked, “Did Dr. Whitly ever tell you about our camping trips?”</p><p>Mr. David shrugged. “He mentioned camping here and there. Nothing particular.” Then he questioned, “Does this have something to do with…?”</p><p>That’s right. The case.</p><p>“No, no. I was just curious,'' Malcolm shook his head, dispelling his own disappointment.</p><p>“Your dad was always hoping you’d visit,” Mr. David reminisced. “Hoping you’d call. Agitated by every ignored call. Man, he’d <em> beg me </em> for more phone time. I’ll admit, sometimes I gave him a few more minutes than I should have. He never passed up a chance to get in touch with you.”</p><p>Malcolm listened to him and slowly nodded, deep in thought. The Surgeon knew his cell number. Would he call it? Did his father even still have a desire to see him again? Or had his priorities changed now that he was free? What if their twisted relationship wasn't worth anything anymore, now that he was free to do what he wished and to go where he wished?</p><p>Mr. David was still reminiscing. “I saw him angry. I saw him depressed. I saw him sick. I saw him hysterical with boredom.”</p><p>The profiler was still worrying. He couldn’t help but wonder if he meant as much to his father anymore, or if he’d only ever meant something because he’d been the man’s only connection to the outside world. Perhaps spending time with his son couldn’t compare to spending his time doing other things. Other things he’d wanted to do for twenty years.</p><p>“And I saw him happy,” Mr. David concluded. “He was happiest when he was with you.”</p><p>Malcolm glanced up at the guard and found comfort in his honesty. But the profiler soon hummed a poor joke, “You speak of him as if he’s dead.”</p><p>Mr. David predicted, “If you don’t find that man soon, someone’s gonna be.”</p><p>Malcolm’s cell phone buzzed. His heart raced, and he quickly opened it. It was ridiculous of him to feel disappointed by the caller I.D.</p><p>With a breath, he answered the call. “Hey Gil.”</p><p>“We found bodies.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bodies belonged to the two guards who had been in charge of Dr. Whitly during his time outside of Claremont. Mark Freeman was slumped over in the back of the transport van while Jerry Stevens appeared to have spilled out of the rear doors, his corpse face-down in the gravel and bent unnaturally like a discarded doll. Other than the scrapes on the latter’s face, neither body bore any signs of physical trauma or injury, and they were still wearing their uniforms and badges.</p><p>There were two more guards unaccounted for. The driver, Lance Ritter, and one more from the back of the van, Matt Rochester. And, of course, Dr. Martin Whitly.</p><p>Malcolm took in the sight of it all as the rest of the squad brought him up to speed. They stood under the overpass of an old highway on the outskirts of Manhattan, where the Claremont van had been found, abandoned. The forensic team swarmed around them conducting their work. Edrisa became aglow the instant she saw Bright, as if his self-appointed surname was contagious. Malcolm smiled back at her, but it was a distracted, troubled smile.</p><p>She wasn’t the only one who never failed to light up like a Christmas tree at the sight of him.</p><p>Dani pointed at the crime scene, explaining, “Cause of death must have been suffocation, but… we don’t know the exact method. Edrisa is taking a look at their blood right now. We determined that Mr. Stevens was killed inside the van, but his body fell out when the back doors were opened. Then he was moved aside, out of the way. There’s a dragging pattern in the gravel beside his body.”</p><p>“Can we see if we can collect any DNA from his clothing that isn’t his own?” Malcolm asked, his brow knitted.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“So we can find out who dragged his body,” the profiler answered, as if it was an obvious reason.</p><p>Dani was confused by his reasoning. “Well, the only options would be....”</p><p>“My dad didn’t kill these men,” Malcolm interrupted her. It was very clear to him. He knew his father, and he knew his style. This wasn’t his style. All too late, Malcolm realized he’d used the wrong word. “I mean --<em> Doctor Whitly,” </em> he corrected with a start.</p><p>JT pointed out what they all thought was the only other option. All of them, except Malcolm. “So, then the other guards did.”</p><p>“I don’t think they did either,” the profiler shook his head. “I spoke to somebody at Claremont who knew them. They’re good people.” Malcolm then looked to Gil, who had been watching the young man carefully. “And like you said, we have no reason to suspect them.”</p><p>Gil remained silent.</p><p>“Well. These two are here, dead, and those two are <em> neither. </em> I’d say that’s a pretty good reason right there,” JT argued.</p><p>“I think you were right when you said that the guards were in on it, Malcolm. At least, the two that are still missing,” Dani eased.</p><p>Malcolm was staring at the van again, appearing not to hear her.</p><p>Dani kept trying to get through to him, concerned by the look on his face. “We just have to do some more digging on Mr. Ritter and Mr. Rochester.”</p><p>Malcolm stepped away from the detective to crouch beside Edrisa, who was kneeling beside Mr. Stevens' body and holding a red device at the end of a tube leading to his arm. One of her assistants held a second device, inserting its needle into Mr. Freeman’s flesh. “What do you have, Dris?”</p><p>“Oh, hi Malcolm!” she beamed. “Um. This is a co-oximeter. It’s a blood gas analyzer that measures concentrations of different hemoglobins in a person’s blood, like oxygenated hemoglobin, deoxygenated hemoglobin, methemoglobin--”</p><p>Malcolm gently cut into her list. “I --I know, Dris. I’ve seen one before.”</p><p>“Oh. Great!” She looked thoroughly embarrassed. “That’s… wow. Of course… you have.”</p><p>“I meant what do you have as far as <em> results?” </em> the profiler smiled kindly.</p><p>“Oh! Right. Results. Um, it looks like….” She squinted at the dimly lit screen of the co-oximeter. “Woah. Holy shit.”</p><p>All attention turned to Edrisa. Her assistant held over the second meter, and she compared the data of both. “They have <em> extremely </em> high concentrations of carboxyhemoglobin in their blood.”</p><p>As she peered at her screens, Malcolm peered into the van.</p><p>“Carbon monoxide poisoning,” Edrisa translated.</p><p>“From the exhaust?” Dani asked skeptically.</p><p>Malcolm was carefully pulling himself up into the transport van, examining the metal benches lined up along either side of it. “No,” he answered, lifting open the door to a storage compartment under one bench. “From this.”</p><p>They all stepped in closer to see what he’d found. A canister of compressed gas was strapped inside the storage compartment. The PSI gauge told them that it was empty.</p><p>“Well, JT, it looks like you were on to something with your ‘full tank of gas’ comment,” Lieutenant Arroyo muttered.</p><p>Edrisa eagerly weaseled her way to the front of the group and gasped, “Yep. That could do it. That much pure CO could kill someone in less than five minutes, especially in this enclosed space. Good find, Malcolm! You’re like a... bloodhound. Or a homing missile.”</p><p>Malcolm didn’t appear too proud of himself. “Thanks.”</p><p>JT seemed perplexed. “So then... what happened to the others?”</p><p>“They got out.” Malcolm stood up and ran his hands over his face to wipe away some stress.</p><p>“How?”</p><p>Malcolm sighed and tried to maintain his patience. He bent down to open the compartment again, showing them, “There's room here for a second tank. An oxygen tank. See the extra straps? They must have taken it with them, which makes <em> sense, </em> because that would have been attached to respirator masks, which would have been <em> magnets </em> for DNA.”</p><p>“You keep talking like there’s another person involved in this,” Gil observed.</p><p>“There is,” Malcolm professed. “There has to be.”</p><p>“Nobody else was in this van,” Dani shook her head. “What, do you think someone was hiding in another one of those boxes?”</p><p>Malcolm didn’t want to think about a person locked in a box at the moment. He grew more terse. “I don’t know. But Ritter and Rochester couldn’t have done this.”</p><p>“Sometimes good people change, Malcolm,” Gil eased.</p><p>“I know!” Malcolm snapped. “I know that, you think I don’t know that?”</p><p>The group had grown silent.</p><p>“Sorry,” he pathetically apologized. He was finding it difficult to breathe, as if the carbon monoxide was still invisibly clouded within the van. But that wasn’t true. It had dispersed out through the open doors long ago. “I need some air,” he mumbled. The gang parted to let him out of the claustrophobic vehicle and he stormed away from the scene, shoving his hands in his pockets.</p><p>They all exchanged worried looks before Lieutenant Arroyo sighed and regained control of the situation, giving everyone a job to do moving forward with the case. “Find out everything you can about Mr. Ritter and Mr. Rochester. They’re not only our prime suspects, they’re our only leads.”</p><p>“Yes, Lieutenant.” Dani cast one last look towards Malcolm and then left with JT.</p><p>After a moment, Gil looked over to Malcolm, who was sitting on the curb with his head in his hands. That wasn't a good sign. Before long, the lieutenant was sitting beside the profiler. “What’s goin’ through your head, kid?” It was difficult to tell if he was stressed --or disappointed.</p><p>Malcolm pressed his knuckles to his forehead to get a grip of himself before lifting his head up and taking a deep breath. “Whoever did this, they were <em> clean. </em> Killing someone with carbon monoxide is efficient, quick, and easy. It leaves no mess. No literal blood on their hands. And no evidence of their presence.” As if they had desired to be ghosts.</p><p>“When my d--” he corrected himself, “When Doctor Whitly kills, he enjoys it. He likes to… get his hands dirty.”</p><p>Malcolm knew that his father had only ever cleaned up after himself to hide what he did, so he could continue doing it secretly and have a normal life as a cover. Now that the whole world knew what he was, he didn’t have reason to cover up anything, other than what might lead to his re-arrest.</p><p>The profiler jutted a thumb towards the crime scene. “If Mr. Ritter and Mr. Rochester were somehow under the Surgeon’s influence, and if Dr. Whitly had <em> any </em> participation in those deaths, he would have painted a bloodbath to celebrate his escape.” He’d always called his work <em> art. </em></p><p>Additionally, he believed that if his father was truly free to do as he wished, he would have also contacted him by now. But perhaps that was a foolish belief.</p><p>Gil thought about the morbid things the young man told him. He hadn’t told the others, but he’d told Gil, and in a strange way, that meant a lot to the lieutenant. Malcolm knew Gil wouldn’t judge him harshly for such terrible speculations. As terrible as they were, they were sound.</p><p>After all, Malcolm knew his father better than anyone.</p><p>“Yeah, I… I guess that makes sense,” the lieutenant murmured.</p><p>After a few moments, the profiler spoke up again. “I don't think my dad escaped. I think he was kidnapped.” His intuition was rarely wrong.</p>
<hr/><p>Back at the station, the lieutenant installed a tracking application on Malcolm’s phone. “Your mother told me that if Martin was able to reach you, he would,” he said, handing the profiler back his cell. “It's just a matter of time.”</p><p>Malcolm accepted it with dejection. This was not news to him, and it was neither reassuring, for many reasons.</p><p>“With that app, the NYPD can quickly identify the location of any call you receive,” Gil explained. He put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It will keep you safe. And it might help us find him.”</p><p>“He’s not going to call,” Malcolm sighed. “But thanks anyway.” The profiler pocketed his uselessly enhanced device and retreated to the conference room with a box of files.</p>
<hr/><p>Malcolm spent the next couple of hours sifting through those files. They were filled with information about his father’s patients and victims. He knew these files like the back of his hand by now, and nothing new was rising from the endless papers and photos. Soon, the profiler became absorbed by the photos. Photos of his father.</p><p>They were mostly press photos, back when The Whitly Foundation was at its peak. Photos of him smiling, or standing with Jessica at some red carpet event. Malcolm could tell the difference between his father’s smiles. He could tell which ones hid a slight annoyance, or which ones hid boredom, or which ones hid exhaustion. But the photos taken on the night of his arrest, those photos held a different kind of smile. One that hid sadness, perhaps?</p><p>The photo he’d found of them during their camping trip, with the ugly car in the background… that photo held a truly excited smile on his father’s face. One that hid something much more sinister.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Malcolm put down the photo in his hand and looked up as Gil came into the room carrying a box of pizza.</p><p>“I know you haven’t eaten yet today. How many times do you have to learn the hard way that you can’t catch a killer on an empty stomach?”</p><p>Malcolm smiled and shook his head. “Probably a few more times.”</p><p>“Well, today you’re gonna eat,” Gil ordered, dropping the box down on the desk. “I’ll get some napkins.”</p>
<hr/><p>Malcolm had devoured half of the pizza by the time it took Gil to fetch a stack of napkins.</p><p>“I take it you haven’t made any breakthroughs?” the lieutenant asked, taking a seat and grabbing a deliciously greasy New York slice.</p><p>Malcolm shook his head and finished his bite. “Ritter and Rochester have no connections to him whatsoever.” Then, he countered, “I take it you haven’t made any breakthroughs either?”</p><p>Gil shook his head and took another bite.</p><p>Then Malcolm’s phone buzzed.</p><p>After they both stared at it for a second, Malcolm scrambled to pick it up and looked at the caller I.D. His fearful expression fell. “It’s my sister,” he sighed.</p><p>Gil didn’t relax yet. “Answer it,” the lieutenant recommended. While he prayed that Ainsley was alright, he wasn’t ruling out any possibility that The Surgeon would try to reach his son from unexpected angles.</p><p>Malcolm took a breath and held it to his ear. “Hey, Ains.”</p><p>“Hello, Malcolm.” Her voice was as sassy as ever. “First of all, I’m <em> very </em> disappointed that I was NOT the first person you called when you discovered <em> dad </em> had <em> escaped???”  </em></p><p>Malcolm endured her lecture. </p><p>“Um, <em> hello? </em> Story of the century!” Ainsley hissed.</p><p>Gil took a long sip of his coffee, sorry that he’d asked Malcolm to answer the call. At least the young lady was in one piece.</p><p>“Second, I’m <em> dying </em> for an update! What else have you guys discovered? Is the FBI getting involved?”</p><p>With one hand lifted to rub his temple, Malcolm answered, “They’re investigating outside of our jurisdiction. Airports, port of entries, that kind of stuff. Basically, containment control. They’ve locked down a perimeter to try to prevent him leaving the state. The NYPD is scouring the immediately-surrounding territory, which includes Manhattan."</p><p>With what the profiler now suspected, he believed that the efforts of the FBI were unnecessary, and would prove to be fruitless. Whoever had taken their father likely hadn’t taken him very far. Which meant he was probably just out of arm’s reach and that was excruciatingly aggravating to think about.</p><p>“So what have you found?” Ainsley pressed.</p><p>Malcolm sighed. “The van. He wasn't in it. But two of his guards were found dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. Suffocation.”</p><p>Ainsley was silent, for once. Soon, she exhaled, “Holy shit. That’s awful.”</p><p>“Yeah, but he didn’t kill them,” Malcolm mumbled. “Someone else did."</p><p>“Someone <em> else? </em> Who!? Someone working with him?” Ainsley starved for more details. “Is this, like, another John Watkins thing?”</p><p>At the mention of the name, Malcolm closed his eyes and pressed his teeth together. That bastard was firmly stuck in prison, where he belonged. “I don't know. I’m trying to find out. I’ll let you know when we have more information, okay?”</p><p>“Sure you will.”</p><p>Malcolm could hear her eyes rolling.</p><p>After a moment, she asked, “Are you… scared?”</p><p>The profiler hesitated, identifying the earnest compassion in her voice. “....Kind of.” It was difficult to explain what kind of fear he felt. He didn’t even understand it within himself, let alone try to express it to somebody else.</p><p>“Me too,” she hummed.</p><p>“You’re safe, Ains. He’s not coming for you.”</p><p>“I know.” His sister laughed weakly, trying to make a joke. But not really. “If he was coming for anyone, he’d be coming for <em>you.”</em></p><p>“Yeah.” Malcolm doubted The Surgeon was able to do anything, at the moment.</p><p>"I just... don't want him to kill more people."</p><p>"I don't think we have to worry about that," the profiler murmured.</p><p>Ainsley's interest piqued. "Why not?"</p><p>Malcolm gave her a bullshit excuse. The truth was too complicated, and he didn't know how it'd make her feel. Better, or worse. "He'd want to lay low for a while. Not draw any attention to himself."</p><p>"Yeah," she hummed again.</p><p>“Take care of yourself, okay?” he asked.</p><p>“I will,” she answered, followed by an, “I love you.”</p><p>Malcolm’s throat went dry, but he croaked out an, “I love you too,” in response. That was what someone was <em> supposed </em> to say in response. Maybe that was what he <em> should </em> have said in response the last time someone had said that to him.</p><p>“Bye, Ains.” He ended the call and set his phone on the table before running his hands through his hair.</p><p>Gil watched him sadly.<br/>
<br/>
He was about to open his mouth and say something comforting, but then he got a text.<br/>
<br/>
It was an important one.<br/>
<br/>
He stood up from his chair and reached over to touch the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, Bright.”</p><p>Malcolm lifted his head up. “What?”</p><p>“Dani and JT found them.”</p><p>Malcolm’s heart thundered. “Who?”</p><p>“Ritter and Rochester.” Lieutenant Arroyo slipped his arms through his leather jacket and then retrieved Malcolm’s. “They’re dead.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their bodies were discovered in the most unpleasant of ways. When the garbage truck arrived at Claremont at the end of the day’s route, the driver was startled by two loud thumps as he mechanically deposited the contents of the dumpster into his compactor. He instantly knew that this was no ordinary load of trash.</p><p>The NYPD pulled up to the loading bay of the psychiatric hospital. As Lieutenant Arroyo left the driver’s side of his squad car, Malcolm Bright left the passenger side.</p><p>JT and Dani were standing beside the bodies, looking very unhappy, disgusted, and dirty.</p><p>“So much for <em> ‘clean,’” </em>Malcolm muttered. Gil gave him a look.</p><p>As they approached their team, the profiler asked, “What happened to you guys?” He then looked at the mucky corpses, then the garbage truck. “Did you…?”</p><p>“Don’t ask,” JT pleaded, his nose scrunched. Some techs brought the detectives paper towels, wet wipes, and hand sanitizer.</p><p>Edrisa was right on their heels, and she didn’t look very happy either. But her concern lied more towards what she had to work with, which wasn't very much. “Ugh. These corpses have been through <em> hell.” </em> </p><p>The contamination of evidence was clearly an issue. Whatever clues they might have gleaned from these new bodies had been thoroughly buried and ironically washed away in garbage. Malcolm sighed to stave off his frustration, then asked, “Where are their uniforms?” It wasn't difficult to notice they were missing. The bodies were clad only in their underwear and undershirts --and a few banana peels and soggy paper.</p><p>“I don’t know. They weren’t wearing them,” Dani answered, wiping her arms and hands.</p><p>“And their badges….” Malcolm calculated, furrowing his brow.</p><p>“If you’re gonna ask us to start diggin’ through the trash again-- <em> nuh uh,” </em>JT vehemently declared. “Do it yourself.”</p><p>“No need. We wouldn’t find them,” Malcolm grumbled. It was all coming together. “They were stolen, just like their uniforms."</p><p>Gil narrowed his eyes at the young man. “Are you saying we have some kind of <em> impersonator </em>situation?”</p><p><em> “Had, </em>yes,” Malcolm corrected. He looked pale, but unsurprised. “Edrisa, how long ago do you think these men died?”</p><p>Edrisa was bravely kneeling beside the bodies, inspecting them with gloved hands. “Based on the stiffness, I’d say about... twelve hours.”</p><p>The group exchanged looks of astonishment while Malcolm clenched his jaw. “These men were never in the van. They died before it even left Claremont,” he announced, marching away.</p><p>Dani was the first to run after him. “Bright, wait.”</p><p>“Where was that dumpster before the truck picked it up?” he asked, clearly on a mission for more information. Dani showed him, and he stood in the now-empty spot, looking around the dock. Finding what he was looking for, he raised his arm to point at a security camera. “That one  would have seen anything being dumped into this bin. We need to review that camera’s footage and see who did it.”</p><p>“Okay. Let’s go,” Dani started heading to the building, but the profiler stayed rooted in place. The detective stopped and glanced back at her friend. “Malcolm?”</p><p>His hands were shaking again. He stuffed his fists in his pockets and caught his breath, staring at nothing. “You go ahead.”</p><p>Detective Powell hesitated. If she had more faith in the cleanliness of her hands, she might have offered some kind of comforting touch, but she’d just dug through a heap of filth. Instead, she snapped a gentle, “Hey.” </p><p>He looked at her.</p><p>“We’re friends. Remember?” she asked, prompting him to recall what he’d said before. That he’d do better about opening up and letting her in. Because that was what friends did.</p><p>Malcolm hesitated, but he broke the news, “He didn’t escape, Dani. Someone took him.”</p><p>She quirked a soft look of confusion at him and processed his theory. “Someone… took him? Like, what, a kidnapping?”</p><p>Malcolm distantly nodded.</p><p>After a moment, she shifted her stance and blinked. “But, if they wanted Doctor Whitly dead, they would have killed him in the <em> van, </em> wouldn’t they?”</p><p>Malcolm shook his head and smiled as some of his hair fell in front of his forehead. “Not if they wanted to kill him in a <em> different </em> way. Or if they wanted to drag it out. Make him <em> suffer </em>first.” He grinned with a tight bitterness while he stated the fact.</p><p>This was hardly the situation to smile, even if it was only in resentment. But Dani didn’t comment on Malcolm’s strange choice of expression. “Is... there a chance he’s... <em> already </em>dead?” she ventured carefully.</p><p>“No,” Malcolm snickered inappropriately, as if she’d told a good joke. “They’d announce it. They’d want to…” he shrugged grandly. “Put people at ease! And <em> show off </em> their triumph!”</p><p>Dani rolled her eyes at his false cheerfulness. The stress was clearly starting to make him delirious. “Malcolm. <em> Malcolm.” </em> When he didn’t snap out of his clownish daze, she shot out a fist to lightly punch his shoulder.</p><p>That did the trick. He held his bicep and threw her a wounded look.</p><p>She returned a sincere look. “We’ll find him. Okay? Everything’s gonna be alright.”</p><p>Malcolm stared at her as if she’d found something he’d worked hard to keep hidden. Then he swallowed, tore his gaze away, and steeled himself. She could see the tendons in his neck clench.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Detective Powell eased. She was not blind to his pain. “He’s your dad. I get it. This is… hard.”</p><p>“Look, I don’t care about<em> him, </em> alright?” Malcolm growled, nipping the conversation in the bud. “I just want... I just want to know who did it. Because if they've got a vendetta against The Surgeon, then they’ve probably got one against his family, too.”</p><p>Dani attempted to determine if that was the truth, or just an excuse to avoid talking about what he really felt. Either way, she nodded, obeying his unspoken wish for her to leave the topic alone. “Okay. I’ll go pull that footage.”</p><p>Malcolm watched her walk away with a twinge of guilt. He stared at the cement again, observing it change colors with the flash of the NYPD lights. </p><p>He remembered the last words he spoke to his father.</p><p><em> “You’re going to be okay, Doctor Whitly.” </em> </p><p>He remembered his father’s drowsy grin.</p><p>
  <em> “That’s gonna disappoint a lot of people.” </em>
</p><p>Malcolm’s thoughts turned back to Corey Wheaton, The Carousel Killer, who had also stolen a badge and uniform to get into that surgery room to confirm that the deed had been done.</p><p>
  <em> “I thought I’d moved on. But then there’s this… interview and news conference. Suddenly it’s the Whitlys everywhere. Reminding me of Amelia, and everything I lost.” </em>
</p><p>He had been vengeful for the death of his wife, which The Surgeon had tried to <em> save. </em> Not murder. Dr. Whitly had been <em> innocent </em>in that case.</p><p>
  <em> “That monster--” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re the monster!” </em>
</p><p>Malcolm remembered his own rage, and he felt his fists trembling in his coat pockets.</p><p>
  <em> “I did you a favor. You're free of him. Your father’s dead.” </em>
</p><p>Malcolm had just got done accepting the possibility of his father’s death, and now that possibility had returned, hovering over his head like a threatening cloud of darkness. Whoever had taken The Surgeon was another ‘Corey Wheaton.’ Someone who either <em> had </em> been wronged or <em> felt </em>as if they had been wronged by him, who was probably triggered the same way Corey Wheaton was triggered, and who was undoubtedly inspired by The Carousel Killer’s actions --which were broadcast so thoroughly on Ainsley’s news station. Malcolm closed his eyes and sank into his anger.</p><p>It was the perfect time for someone to do this. Dr. Whitly had been out of prison. Healing from surgery. Weak. Already restrained. Malcolm sighed. He had to find someone who fit that vengeful profile. The problem was, nobody did. He knew the files of the people connected to his father like the back of his hand, and every avenue they led to had been thoroughly investigated since The Carousel Killer case.</p><p>This was somebody new. Somebody who was likely connected to a victim they didn’t know about.</p>
<hr/><p>The footage they pulled didn’t yield any useful information. Claremont’s cameras were ancient and their night vision was grainy. They were unable to effectively zoom-in to capture any still picture of the person who had dumped what they could only guess were the bodies, based on the shitty image.</p><p>They’d found a dead end. There were no more leads.</p><p>Bright refused to go home that night, so Lieutenant Arroyo draped a blanket over his shoulders and brought him a bag to use as a pillow. Malcolm appreciated the gesture, but also refused to sleep. He sat at the conference table with the blanket over his shoulders and a desk lamp illuminating a spread of papers in front of him. He was scribbling various profiles --possibilities of traits, motives, and characteristics that the kidnapper might have.</p><p>He periodically glanced at his phone, which lay near his elbow, dormant. Part of him prayed that it would ring. Part of him believed that if he stared at it long enough, it would.</p><p>Malcolm held his head in one hand as he continued to calculate his profiles and formulate his theories. After a few hours, he rested his head on his folded arm and scribbled absent-mindedly-- having narrowed his possibilities down to three instead of eight. Finally, just before the sun rose, he drifted off to sleep, still holding his pen with a deathly tight grip.</p>
<hr/><p>His pen turned into a ceramic dagger.</p><p>No.</p><p>He felt it scrape against bone and puncture through soft flesh.</p><p>Stop.</p><p>He heard his father scream.</p><p>It felt as if it was real all over again. He was stabbing him. Repeatedly. The action replayed like a broken tape eternally rewinding to the same spot. He couldn't control himself. Again and again, the dagger plunged, and he couldn’t remove his grip from the handle. </p><p>Stop!</p><p>Blood saturated his father’s prison uniform and dripped freely onto the rug beneath them.</p><p>Dad!</p><p>Sink. Scrape. Sink. Scrape. Over and over and over again.</p><p>Blood soaked the floor. Puddled at his feet. It didn’t stop flowing. The level rose as it crept up his shins, thick and heavy like liquid lead. It flooded the room, yet he kept stabbing.</p><p>
  <em> DAD!!! </em>
</p><p>A shift in the nightmarish air brought a stark change to the dream.</p><p>All was calm.</p><p>Too calm.</p><p>The room was dark and empty. Barren and cold.</p><p>His own voice called again, soft and small.</p><p>Dad?</p><p>He could see his father lying supine on his parents’ bed. His chest did not rise and fall. Malcolm had never seen his father look so peaceful. So vulnerable. So quiescent. With no smiles or jokes, no teases or lies, no arrogance or acting. Just silence, and stillness. Because he was already a corpse. An abandoned carapace. A vacant casket that was meant to hold life, but never again would.</p><p><em> Dad? </em> </p><p>Little Malcolm couldn't move. He couldn’t call for an ambulance. He couldn’t rush over to check for a pulse. He couldn't do anything. He was bound by the debilitating laws of the nightmare, entirely helpless. All he could do was stand there, petrified, and stare.</p><p>The mattress began welling with blood. It soaked through the fibers and foam. It dripped down the bed skirt. It puddled on the floor. The bed completely turned crimson.</p><p>
  <em> Dad!!! </em>
</p><p>Malcolm realized his pajamas were soaked in it too. It was warm and sticky and it clung to his bare skin underneath the satin threads. Distraught, he hurled forth a scream. His high-pitched, childish cry was echoed by another drawn-out snarl of his father’s pain. Their voices merged in a harmony of anguish.</p><p>It deafened him.</p>
<hr/><p>Malcolm startled awake, jerking so forcefully that he nearly threw himself out of his chair.</p><p>Gil was there. His strong arms kept the boy from bursting apart at the seams. “You’re alright. It's alright.”</p><p>Malcolm gasped for breath as he slowly came out of his stupor. Even though his consciousness had returned, he crumbled. He closed his grip around Gil’s shirt and shuddered as a sob escaped through his clenched teeth. Lieutenant Arroyo wrapped his arms around the profiler and held him tight.</p><p>Neither of them were very touchy-feely men, but for a few moments, they clung to each other.</p><p>Malcolm released some tears.</p><p>Gil didn’t ask any questions.</p><p>The sun rose.</p>
<hr/><p>“What time is it?” Malcolm curled his hands around a warm mug of coffee and rubbed the crumbs of sleep from the corners of his eyes.</p><p>“Almost six.” Gil held his own mug, making a fair amount of progress in emptying it.</p><p>Malcolm nodded and stared at the desk. It’d nearly been twenty four hours since his father was taken. He furrowed his brow. “What are you doing here this early?”</p><p>“Well. I wasn’t gonna let you stay here alone,” Lieutenant Arroyo murmured. He didn’t go home the night prior.</p><p>Malcolm scoffed and shook his head. “Gil, you didn’t have to--”</p><p>“I wanted to,” the man interrupted gently. “Somebody’s gotta watch over you.”</p><p>They exchanged tender looks that turned into smiles. Gil chuckled, “I don’t know if you've noticed, kid, but you tend to find trouble.”</p><p>With a grin, Malcolm justified, “That <em> is </em>my job.”</p><p>“I think you do it a little too well sometimes.”</p><p>Malcolm’s smile wavered. He wasn't doing a very good job of it this time around. They were still at a dead end. He shook his head and murmured, claiming innocence, “In my defense, I think <em> trouble </em> more often tends to find <em> me.” </em></p><p>It was at that moment that his phone buzzed.</p><p>They stared at it.</p><p>Malcolm reminded himself to breathe, and reached for it with a nervous hand. He looked at the caller I.D.</p><p>“Ainsley again?”</p><p>“Unknown number,” Malcolm exhaled, his eyes wide and heart racing. “Pull up the tracker.”</p><p>Gil stood up to fetch his laptop. His heart was also racing, but he kept a level head. “Don’t get too excited. It’s probably just a sales call.”</p><p>“At five-fifty in the morning?” Malcolm doubted it. "Hurry!” he called as Gil left the conference room.</p><p>He stared at the screen, unable to wait any longer. He swiped to answer the call and held it to his ear with both hands, cradling it as if it were a treasure. “Hello?”</p><p>Nothing answered him.</p><p>He waited, but his patience was shot. “Hello?” he asked again, his voice quaking. He silently breathed, knowing he had to act calm. If this was the kidnapper, he needed to show no weakness.</p><p>Another long silence followed.</p><p>Gil came into the room again, hurriedly opening his laptop and firing up the tracking application. They exchanged looks of ‘anything yet?’ and ‘not yet.’</p><p>Still, silence.</p><p>Malcolm wasn't going to hang up. This was not the first time he’d received a call like this. Whoever was on the other end of that line was testing him.</p><p>“I know you’re there,” the profiler said, his tone even and strong. He was prepared to analyze every word that came out of the caller’s mouth. He was eager for it. Daresay, desperate for it. He needed more to work with, and this was how he’d get it. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and he felt ready for anything.</p><p>Anything, except...</p><p><em> “Hello, </em> Malcolm!”</p><p>His dad.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Like a strike of lightning, Martin’s voice had chiseled a crack straight through Malcolm’s stone facade.</p><p>“Where are you?” the profiler blurted.</p><p>“Ah, well,” his father chuckled wearily, “I can’t really <em> tell </em> you. But--”</p><p>Malcolm cut in again. “Who’s doing this? What do they wa--?”</p><p>“Just <em> listen, </em> alright?” </p><p>Malcolm was silenced by the glimpse of anger in his father’s voice.</p><p>“I don’t have much time,” the man eased gently.</p><p>Malcolm listened.</p><p>“I just wanted to... <em>apologize</em> for not calling earlier. I’ve been a bit... <em>occupied.”</em></p><p>Malcolm knew what 'occupied' meant. He closed his eyes and asked one last question, whispering,  “Are you alright?”</p><p>Dr. Whitly laughed a little, but didn’t answer it. He only drawled a fond, “Oh, Malcolm,” as if it was a very stupid thing to ask, but one which he appreciated all the same.</p><p>The profiler would have preferred a reassuring lie.</p><p>“I want you to know that you will see me again <em> very soon,” </em>his father promised, as if he was simply away on a business trip. As if Malcolm was six years old again. “We’ll have a little reunion, alright? Like Christmas. I know you haven’t had the best experience with those, but--”</p><p>The call ended.</p><p>Malcolm flinched as if he’d been stung by a wasp. “No!” The profiler looked at the blank screen of his phone. The call had been less than thirty seconds long. “No, shit, <em> no!” </em> His panicked eyes darted to Gil. “Did you get the location?”</p><p>“I got it,” Gil answered, standing up and pulling out his own phone. But he didn't call for any of his units. He dialed the FBI.</p><p>Malcolm practically vaulted over the table to look at the laptop. The call originated from the outskirts of Scranton, Pennsylvania. Two hours away. Well outside of their jurisdiction. The profiler stared at the screen in disbelief. “No.” His prediction that the kidnapper would have kept The Surgeon close was wrong. He may as well have been taken to another planet.</p><p>Gil hurriedly spoke to the FBI and wisely informed them of a potential hostage situation. Then the lieutenant left the call. “They’re on their way.”<br/>
<br/>
“How soon can they get there?” Malcolm croaked.</p><p>“Far sooner than we could,” Gil sighed.</p><p>The case was in the FBI’s hands, now. Somehow, Manhattan suddenly felt like a very <em> small </em> and deserted island. Here, they were powerless. All they could do was wait.</p><p>Malcolm stared at the laptop screen. He stared at the location where his father had called him from. He stared until his vision blurred.</p><p>“I can’t believe he actually called you,” Gil breathed, shaking his head. Jessica had been right. Still, it felt like such an incredible coincidence; The Surgeon calling after the tracking app had been installed on Malcolm’s phone. After they’d slammed into a dead end in the case. What luck.</p><p>Malcolm collapsed in a chair, muttering, “Of course he did,” as he hung his head and held his face in his hands.</p><p>Gil watched him break apart, and tried to console him with a gently optimistic, “This is a <em> good </em> thing, kiddo. We know where he is now.”</p><p>“It’s <em> not </em> a good thing,” Malcolm argued, his voice tight. He gripped his hair and grimaced, “That was a Last Goodbye.”</p><p>“A what?”</p><p>“A Last Goodbye,” the profiler explained, “It’s when tormentors allow their victims one last contact with a chosen family member.” He took a breath. “Usually the one... most dear to them.” He swallowed a lump in his throat and finished, “But the tormentors cut it short. Sometimes they kill their victim during the call. Other times... directly after.”</p><p>Malcolm dragged his nails through his scalp and then pressed his palms together in front of his face. “It’s a form of psychological and emotional torture.” His father probably had a gun to his head during that entire call.</p><p>Gil furrowed his brow. He was watching someone be psychologically and emotionally tortured right now. With a pang of guilt, he regretted bursting into the boy’s apartment and roping him into this mess in the first place.</p><p>The profiler tried to remember his father’s voice and analyze it postmortem, so to speak. Had he been scared? Had he been in pain? Malcolm couldn't remember, and his thoughts were tainted by his fears. He tried not to think about a gunshot and his father’s bloody corpse. He tried not to think about what he should have said during the call, or how he could have handled it differently.</p><p>Malcolm failed. He failed to do any of that. And he failed to save him.</p><p>“I should have said it,” Malcolm whispered, closing his eyes and burrowing his face into his praying hands. “That was my last chance to say it.”</p><p>Lieutenant Arroyo didn’t know what the profiler was mumbling to himself about. “Malcolm,” he began, but hesitated. He was lost on how to soothe him. “Look, all we can do right now is wait for the FBI to--”</p><p>“They're not going to find the kidnapper,” Malcolm gave a hollow mutter. “But they’ll find <em> him. </em> What’s left of him.”</p><p>“Don't think like that, kid.”</p><p>“It’s over, Gil.” Malcolm shook his head and appeared ghostly pale, as if all of the life in his soul had floated away. “He’s dead. My father is gone.”</p><p>Lieutenant Arroyo stared at him as if he were indeed a ghost. “You sound just like him.”</p><p>Malcolm struggled to surface from his hopeless trance, but he looked at Gil. “What?”</p><p>“When you went missing,” the lieutenant explained with a level of anger, “When Watkins had taken you, I went to your dad to get some leads on where you were being held, and that’s <em> exactly </em> what he said!”</p><p>The man took a deep breath to calm his irritation. “He gave up on you, Malcolm. The second I mentioned Watkins had you, he was convinced you were already gone and it was like pulling goddamn <em> teeth </em> to get any <em> useful </em> information out of him after that.”</p><p>Malcolm blinked, disappointed and hurt. Confused. Unsettled by the memories of being held captive by The Junkyard Killer.</p><p>“He was <em> wrong. </em> You were still alive.”</p><p>Gil knew the probability of Martin surviving was slim, but it had jarred the lieutenant to see the boy act so much like his father. “Now, I…. I don’t want you to… ‘get your hopes up,’ or whatever.” Whatever the correct phrase was for this very complicated situation. “But <em> you </em> could be wrong, too.”</p><p>“Let’s just wait until the FBI gets there, and then….” He searched the room for an easy way to finish whatever the hell he was trying to say. Finally, he shrugged, not finding it. “Then we’ll deal with whatever we need to deal with. Okay?”</p><p>Malcolm was silent, his gaze galaxies away.</p><p>“Until then, you need to eat. You look like you’re going to pass out, “ Gil grumbled, marching off to fetch something from the break room.</p><p>Malcolm didn’t stop him.</p><p>The profiler was stunned by the news that his father had given up on him when he had needed him the most. It carved out yet another cavern in his already-gutted heart. It wounded him. It made him angry. And it did raise his hopes, or whatever the correct phrase was, if only because once Malcolm found his father, alive, he’d mercilessly berate him on what he’d learned. He’d yell at him and scold him for having so little faith in him. His quickness to give up could have resulted in Malcolm’s actual death. In their <em> family’s </em> actual death.</p><p>But that would be hypocritical of the profiler.</p><p>The young man set his jaw and quelled his anger and pain. He would not give up. He would be <em> better </em> than his father. Until he knew for a fact that Martin was dead --until he saw his dreaded carcass with his own two eyes-- he would not stop searching for him. He would not give up.</p><p>Malcolm hauled himself out of his chair, strode to the whiteboard, and wrote everything down while it was still raw in his throbbing memory. He calculated the silence at the beginning of the call. The kidnapper must have used that time to transfer the phone over to his dad. His dad must have used that time to don a brave face and put on a convincing act for his Last Goodbye.</p><p>
  <em> Don’t think about that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ‘I don't have much time.’ </em>
</p><p>To talk or to live? Malcolm criticised himself again. <em> Don’t think about that. </em></p><p>It was incredibly difficult. Malcolm’s imagination ran wild and uncontrolled. The more he thought about that call, the more he was certain the FBI would find his father’s body. Malcolm‘s eyes scanned over the words he’d written on the whiteboard as if they detailed a map of his father’s death.</p><p>He closed his eyes and pressed his fist to his lips.</p><p>Gil came in with a bag of pretzels.</p>
<hr/><p>The pretzels were a smart move on Gil’s part. They were small enough to distractedly nibble on and salty enough to subconsciously make the profiler thirsty. But Malcolm stopped nibbling when the crunch echoing through his head started to sound less like crisp bread and more like thin bones. He did finish his glass of water, but it did little to clear his head of a stress-induced migraine.</p><p>They sat at the conference table, staring at the scribbled transcript of the conversation.</p><p>“Not much to go off, is there?” Gil muttered.</p><p>“No, there’s not,” Malcolm sighed.</p><p>Gil carefully read a sentence aloud, “‘You will see me again very soon.’ What could that mean? Is the kidnapper planning on bringing him here, or something?”</p><p>“If he is, it’s gonna be in a <em> body bag,” </em> Malcolm smirked cruelly. “As a <em> gift.” </em> He wasn't just being snarky. That could be entirely possible.</p><p>Gil was sorry he’d asked.</p><p>Then the lieutenant’s phone rang.</p><p>Malcolm froze in terror.</p><p>Gil hesitated. There was a great possibility that when he answered that call, it would bring a new reality to the profiler's life that would cripple and destroy him.<br/>
<br/>
Malcolm swallowed, fearing the same. But he bravely nodded. <em>Go ahead.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malcolm’s gaze drilled into the lieutenant as he answered the call.</p><p>Gil listened to the phone for a few moments until he furrowed his brow and muttered into it, “You’re kidding. Really?”</p><p>Malcolm’s heart thundered.</p><p>Gil performed a few sparse nods, his expression torn between relief and confusion and worry. “Okay. Alright. Thanks. Bye.”</p><p>Malcolm waited with bated breath.</p><p>“They didn't find anything,” Gil informed him.</p><p>“What?” Malcolm hissed. “Anything,’ meaning…?”</p><p>“Meaning <em> anything,” </em> Gil answered. “They didn't find a <em> single </em> damn thing besides an unlocked door in the back of a warehouse. No weapons, no boot tracks, no signs of a disturbance, no fingerprints on doorknobs or light switches, no phone, no kidnapper, and no Doctor Whitly.”</p><p>The profiler was dumbfounded. “No fingerprints on...?”</p><p>“None at all. He said it seemed like the doorknobs had recently been <em>cleaned.</em> So, someone <em> was </em> there, but they were very thorough not to leave a trace.”</p><p>Malcolm blinked, but nodded. Their kidnapper was clean. It fit his profile.</p><p>“I don’t understand,” Gil sighed. “Why would they give a Last Goodbye and then leave with their victim instead of….” he struggled to find a way to put it lightly. “Killing him right then and there, like you said?”</p><p>“Maybe they knew the call was being tracked,” Malcolm theorized. “I mean, I do work with the NYPD. Perhaps they knew they didn’t have enough time to clean up their….” There certainly wasn't a way to put it lightly. <em> “Mess, </em> and they didn’t want to risk being caught. So they took him somewhere else to finish it.”</p><p>The profiler thought deeply about the new development in the case. His mind whirled as he looked back at the whiteboard. “We don't have much time.” Standing up from his chair, he cast a scrutinous glare over the sentences once more. “I need to concentrate. Can you give me a minute?” he asked politely.</p><p>“Sure,” Gil stood up, grabbing the bag of pretzels to take them back to the break room.</p><p>“Thanks,” Malcolm muttered distractedly. But before the lieutenant left, Malcolm stopped him. “I-I mean it, Gil.”</p><p>Gil paused in the doorway and looked at him. </p><p>“Thank you. For everything,” Malcolm nodded earnestly.</p><p>Gil smiled an old, tired smile. “Anytime, kid.” He gently closed the door behind him to give the profiler some solitary peace.</p><hr/><p>The solitary peace didn’t last long.</p><p>Malcolm gnawed on his knuckles and took in every word on the white board, replaying the conversation in his head over and over again. His dad was clever. He had faith in his father. Martin had taken the chance to send a message to his son, Malcolm just knew it. He only had to decode it.</p><p>“Come on, dad,” he whispered to himself. “What were you telling me?”</p><p>The profiler was open. He was receptive. He was trying to crawl back in the dark space that was his father’s mind.</p><p>But all that happened was the invasion of his own.</p><p>“It’s right there, my boy.”</p><p>The Surgeon gestured at the whole whiteboard. “Plain as day.”</p><p>Malcolm ignored the hallucination standing beside him, only muttering, “I know.”</p><p>His father exhaled in disappointment and looked at the spread of information with his son.</p><p>His presence was very distracting, and Malcolm did his best not to dwell on it, nor seek comfort from it. The hallucination wasn't real. But it was damn well convincing.</p><p>Dr. Whitly’s Claremont uniform was clean and white, his cardigan soft and flowing --almost resembling the cape he used to wear when they played ‘Superheros’ when Malcolm was four. His father’s superpower had been strength, and Malcolm’s had been flight -- but only with his father’s help.</p><p>His smile was weaponized and his eyes were inquisitive and kind. His curly hair was as wild and untamed as ever, resembling that of a mad scientist whose greatest invention would have been a hair trimmer, if he only had the genius idea to look in a mirror.</p><p>Malcolm stared straight ahead and ignored him.</p><p>“I mean, it’s <em>right</em> <em>there,</em>” Martin professed, glancing between the profiler and the scribbles. “You really can’t see it? Come on, son, this isn’t <em>neurosurgery.”</em></p><p>“Shut up,” Malcolm whispered, trying to concentrate.</p><p>“I practically put a great big ribbon on it for you. What did you expect, a <em> flashing neon sign?” </em></p><p>Malcolm removed his knuckles from his lips and spat harshly, “I said. Shut. Up.”</p><p>“Fine,” Dr. Whtily lifted his hands in surrender and walked away, only to pace annoyingly behind the profiler.  Malcolm felt his ethereal presence like a cold draft lingering on the back of his neck.</p><p>The profiler’s gaze pierced the whiteboard, digesting every single word written upon it. He worked hard to weed out the emotion the words gave him. He worked hard to think logically, without--</p><p>“Oh, this wait is <em> killing </em> me!” his father whined impatiently, adding an unhelpful, “<em>Literally!” </em> </p><p>Malcolm took a deep breath. “If you’re gonna be here, you might as well be useful.” He gestured to the whiteboard and commanded the figment, “Read it to me.”</p><p>The Surgeon eagerly stalked over to the board and lifted a hand to the first word like a schoolteacher.</p><p>Malcolm slowly read the transcript in his head as Martin slowly read the transcript out loud, speaking in an even, calm tone. His eyes were dutifully locked on his son, but he passed his palm under each word as they read it together in unison.</p><p>Malcolm suddenly noticed the bloody stumps his father had in place of fingers. Dr. Whitly didn’t seem to notice, but he stopped reading when Malcolm stopped reading. “You're getting distracted again,” his father warned.</p><p>Malcolm closed his eyes and dipped his skull to rest his forehead against his fist.</p><p>Dr. Whitly sighed. “I know this case is stressing you out. Making you <em> slow </em> and <em> sluggish </em> and fogging up your <em> sharp </em> mind. Because this time, it’s personal. But you have to <em> focus, </em> son.”</p><p>The Surgeon drawled teasingly, “My life <em> depends </em> on it.”</p><p>Malcolm opened his eyes again and took a shaky breath. He kept reading, and Martin did too. Dr. Whitly didn't lift his hand to gesture at the words this time, and the profiler focused hard on each sentence as he listened to the memory of his father’s soothing, educational voice.</p><p>One sentence stood out above the rest. The shortest sentence, which was only two words. ‘Like Christmas.’</p><p>Malcolm thought hard.</p><p>Christmas. Christmas. Christmas.</p><p>The hallucination of his father stared at him, waiting.</p><p>And ‘Reunion.’</p><p>Reunion. Reunion.</p><p>The Surgeon began to return to his side, moving carefully, like a predator in a fragile hunt. His prey remained fixated upon the transcript.</p><p>‘Reunion’ was a very specific word, but not a rare one. There had been plenty of times when their meetings had been called reunions. </p><p>Martin’s voice echoed in Malcolm’s mind. <em> ‘We’ll have a little reunion, alright? Like Christmas. I know you haven’t had the best experience with those, but--’ </em></p><p>Malcolm lowered his hand from his face. ‘Those’ was referring to both ‘reunions’ <em> and </em> ‘Christmas.’</p><p>It was so obvious, now. Malcolm couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it sooner, especially with all of the other coincidental reminders. He tore his gaze away from the whiteboard and looked his father dead in the eyes. “You were telling me to--”</p><p>Their voices harmonized. “Go to John.”</p><p>“Yes,” The Surgeon chuckled lightly, then winced and shook his head. “That was <em> embarrassingly </em> easy, wasn't it?”</p><p>It certainly was.</p><p>Dr. Whitly smiled proudly. Malcolm briefly grinned back at him in rapture, but his smile shattered when Martin made a face and murmured, “I do hope it’s not too late for me.”</p><p>Malcolm’s fear returned tenfold.</p><p>His father smirked and turned to raise a hand towards the door. But his hand was gone. There was only a bloody stump at his wrist. The hallucination humorously encouraged the profiler to hurry with a dark, <em> “Chop, chop.” </em></p><p>Malcolm regained his breath and called out, “Gil!” before running out of the room, which was left empty.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John Watkins was awaiting trial on Riker’s Island in the EMTC --which meant that the NYPD couldn’t interrogate him without his lawyer present. It just so happened that the lawyer who was representing Watkins was the same lawyer who had defended Martin Whitly twenty years ago.</p><p>Everett Sterling.</p><p>“My mother calls him The Devil,” Malcolm muttered as he strode beside the lieutenant.</p><p>Gil led the way through the EMTC toward their meeting spot. “We’re lucky he’s willing to work with us. It’s more than I expected him to do, and much more than he is obligated to do, especially at this hour. So we should <em> try </em> to be nice.” He gave the profiler a pointed look.</p><p>Malcolm returned the look with a reluctant expression. The profiler had sparsely seen Mr. Sterling during the time of his father’s trial and sentencing, but had never interacted with him as an adult. The profiler didn't think he was evil just because he was a criminal defense lawyer, however there was no doubt that Mr. Sterling was a shady businessman. It was part of his job to keep his clients’ darkest secrets confidential, though based on the gossip Malcolm had heard, he suspected that Mr. Sterling took his duty to another level.</p><p>But he was also the man who had narrowly spared The Surgeon from capital punishment. For whatever that was worth.</p><p>He was standing in the center of the hall like a gatekeeper waiting to collect a toll, wearing a pressed suit the color of marble and displaying a silver silk tie that glinted under the light like a blade.</p><p>Gil held back a sigh as he greeted him. “Mr. Sterling.”</p><p>The lawyer looked straight past the lieutenant and set his sights upon the brown-haired boy beside him. “Well, I’ll be damned. Malcolm Whitly.” His grin appeared as if it were chiseled from stone --perfect, yet inhuman. Grey hair billowed like smoke around his ears. His gaze could nail a person to the wall.</p><p>Malcolm quickly decided that he did not like Everett Sterling. “It’s Bright, actually. Malcolm Bright,” he corrected, resting his hands in front of himself and squaring his shoulders.</p><p>“Ohhh, you changed your name,” Mr. Sterling crooned, regarding the news as if it were a temporary fad --something Malcolm would soon grow out of. The lawyer shook his head and looked the profiler over. “You look <em> just </em> like your old man.” He brought his piercing gaze back up to Malcom’s steady glare and pointed out, “Guess you can’t escape <em> everything.” </em></p><p>Malcolm smiled sarcastically at him. “Funny, I thought the same thing about The Surgeon, but….” he shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news.”</p><p>Mr. Sterling glanced between them with excitement. “Yes, quite a thrilling turn of events, isn’t it?” He looked as if he would receive a large check in the mail any day, and it would all be thanks to their grunt work. “I expect that once he’s caught, I’ll be the <em> first </em> person he’ll want to call.”</p><p>Malcolm smirked arrogantly. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”</p><p>Gil brought the conversation back on track. “What did your client have to say about allowing us to take a few minutes of his time?”</p><p>“Well, it was quite the <em> wake-up </em> call --for both of us. I like to keep my business hours as flexible as possible, but this is a stretch.” Mr. Sterling made a face. “However, my client said he’s willing to answer a few questions,” Mr. Sterling announced, adding with a slow nod, <em> “If </em>certain conditions are met.”</p><p>Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “What are the conditions?”</p><p>“He will only speak to Mister… ‘Bright.’” The lawyer gave the profiler a plastic smile. “Nobody else. And <em> no </em> part of the conversation shall be recorded, or quoted against him in court. That way he can be as <em> open </em> and <em> helpful </em> as possible,” he explained, as if his client was being very generous. And truthfully, he was.</p><p>“You understand. He is awaiting trial, after all. The last thing he needs is more evidence brought up against him. He’s already buried under quite a mountain of accusations.” Mr. Sterling murmured proudly, “Though I’ve won steeper battles.”</p><p>Gil turned a cautious glance at Malcolm, wondering if he was comfortable with that.</p><p>It didn’t matter what the profiler was comfortable with. They didn’t have time to negotiate.</p><p>“We agree to those conditions,” Malcolm answered.</p><p>Mr. Sterling appeared very satisfied. “Terrific. Let’s pay your old friend a visit, then.”</p><hr/><p>Lieutenant Arroyo remained in the hallway immediately outside the door, giving Malcolm a firm couple of pats on the shoulder as a message of <em> ‘good luck’ </em> or <em> ‘I’ll be right here’ </em>or both. Malcolm smiled at him in <em>‘thanks’</em> before he followed a prison guard into the interrogation room.</p><p>John Watkins appeared as if he’d been disturbed from hibernation, which was probably true. His hair was frizzy and matted in certain places, juxtaposing with the rest of his smooth, uncombed locks. His beard was just as unruly as it’d ever been, and his orange jumpsuit practically glowed beneath it.</p><p>“Well, look who it is,” he grinned tiredly, twisting his cuffed wrists in excitement, though they remained attached tightly to the table in front of him.</p><p>The guard left them alone, the heavy steel door shutting behind him with a resounding noise of doom.</p><p>“Back to finish the job?” Watkins guessed with a twinkle in his eyes. They crinkled at the corners just like Martin’s did, though John wasn't nearly as gifted in disguising the sinister nature of his smile.</p><p>“I’m not a killer,” Malcolm muttered, staring at him from across the room. </p><p>Watkins hummed before correcting, “Yet.” He smiled at Malcolm like they shared a dark secret. “You came close, though, didn’t you?”</p><p>“No,” Malcolm smiled back, then stalked to the table between them. “I knew that you’d much rather prefer to be <em> trapped </em> in a <em> small, tightly-confined </em>space, with no way out,” he explained, his voice painting a very elaborate picture for the man. “Isn’t that right?”</p><p>The criminal’s smile faded, but he smirked at the boy’s cruelty.</p><p>Malcolm gave him a cold look. “We don’t have time for small talk, John. I know you heard the news.”</p><p>“‘Course I heard the news,” Watkins chuckled. “Everybody heard the news. The Surgeon escaped.”</p><p>“Except, he didn’t escape,” Malcolm corrected. “He was taken.”</p><p>John lifted his bushy brows and scoffed in humor, “‘Taken,’ huh?”</p><p>“Yes.” Malcolm placed his hands on the table and leaned on them, drilling his explanation into Watkins’ head as succinctly and clearly as possible. “By someone who wants revenge against him. Someone who we think could be connected to one of his victims, one that the public isn’t aware of. You are the only other person who could know about them.”</p><p>John did not appear surprised in the least. He only smiled. “I can’t help but notice that you’re making the assumption that your dad and I shared <em> everything </em> with each other,” he drawled.</p><p>Malcolm made a face and gestured with one hand while arguing, “You shared more with each other than you shared with anyone else. You were each the <em> only </em> people you didn't have to hide the darkest parts of yourselves from. You had a <em> connection. </em> You were <em> friends.” </em></p><p>“We <em> WERE </em> friends!” </p><p>Malcolm flinched at Watkins’ sudden outburst.</p><p>The man’s volume calmed, yet a snarl continued to curl beneath it. “Then that bastard left me to die up in that cabin.” John kept twisting his wrists in his cuffs, glaring between them and the profiler. “You think we’re still <em> buddies </em>or somethin’? You think I owe a goddamn thing to your father?”</p><p>Malcolm stared at him in shock, realizing with a whisper, “You fit the profile.”</p><p>The Junkyard Killer did fit the profile. He’d most frequently used dissociative, hands-off killing methods (until recently when his methods had evolved to be a bit more hands-on.) Watkins had been The Surgeon’s <em> disposal man, </em> covering his tracks for years. He had plenty of experience cleaning up murders and destroying their evidence. And, he had a vengeful motive.</p><p>“You did this,” Malcolm exhaled, wide-eyed. “You’re responsible for this.” His father hadn’t told him to visit John because he knew something about the kidnapper. He’d told him to visit John because he <em> was </em> the kidnapper.</p><p>Watkins laughed a cruel laugh. “I've been locked up <em> here, </em> Malcolm.” He attempted to present his short chains, snapping them against their anchor point.</p><p>“You had a hand in this, somehow. I know you did,” Malcolm seethed.</p><p>John tilted his head and shrugged. “Well, I can understand <em> why </em> you’d think that. I <em> did </em> try to kill your entire family, after all.” He beamed darkly. “I <em> almost </em> succeeded.”</p><p>Malcolm was furious. Maybe he should have ended him when he had the chance. He slammed his palms against the metal table, their loud clap ringing through the vacant room. <em> “Where is he??” </em>he roared.</p><p>The racket was easily heard from outside the room. Gil glanced in through the window at the door, but did not come in.</p><p>“Aw, you're worried about your daddy,” Watkins grinned. “That's cute. He’d like that, if he knew.”</p><p>Malcolm closed his eyes and took a breath that trembled in his lungs, encouraging himself to keep control of his emotions. “I just want him behind bars.”</p><p>“Is that all?” John chuckled, not believing it for a second. “Come on, kid, I know you. I know your dad. You sick sons of bitches loved each other. You were the <em> best </em> of pals.” He glanced over the profiler. “I was jealous. I wish my papa had loved me <em> half </em> as much as your dad loved you.”</p><p>Maclolm took another deep breath, steeling himself.</p><p>“Your dad was <em> good </em> to you. You were his <em> pride </em> and <em> joy</em>,” John hissed.</p><p>“Tell me something I <em> don’t </em>know,” Malcolm growled.</p><p>Watkins grinned and obliged. “I <em> lied </em>to you when I told you that he took you up there to kill you.”</p><p>That was something Malcolm knew, now. But what John said after...</p><p>“He took you up there… to <em> teach </em>you.” The man nodded and narrowed his eyes. “How to do what we do.”</p><p>Malcolm felt the color drain from his face. A very bad feeling sank in his gut, and it made him sweat and shiver all at once.</p><p>He remembered his words in the hospital room. <em> ‘Glad that my... hands are clean.’ </em> He remembered his father’s expression twist in a sinister delight. He remembered him drawl devilishly in response, <em> ‘More or less.’ </em></p><p>John Watkins watched fear and dread permeate across the boy’s face. “You wanna know what <em> really </em>happened on that camping trip, Malcolm?”</p><p>Malcolm broke their eye contact, looking down and feeling his head spin with a wave of dizziness. He swallowed and shook his head. “No.”</p><p>He did not want to know. Not right now. For multiple reasons. He was afraid of what he’d learn, but he was also determined not to become distracted, because that could very well be all that John was doing -- distracting him and tormenting him with more lies. Malcolm had a job to do. He had a victim to save. He had a clock to race against.</p><p>“I wanna know where my dad is,” Malcolm snarled, pounding his fist on the table again. <em> “Right </em> now.”</p><p>“Oh, do ya?” Watkins leaned forward in his seat, whispering, “Do you think someone's got him locked up in a cellar somewhere? Like I had you?”</p><p>The profiler held his iron gaze, harnessing a brewing hatred and taking shallow breaths through his teeth. He needed to ignore the man’s taunts and teases. He needed to get to the facts.</p><p>“D’you think he’s screaming? Like you screamed? With no one around to hear.”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>That was all Malcolm could think about. His father’s scream.</p><p>When Malcolm stabbed him --when his father’s heart stopped, when he collapsed, when he bled-- that was when the illusion of The Surgeon’s invincibility was shattered. That was when his humanity was revealed. Slaying a monster had only exposed a man hiding beneath its pelt.</p><p>Watkins’ face lit up as if he’d just thought of something he hadn’t before. “What if his heart fails again?”</p><p>Malcolm’s expression of anger distorted with bewilderment. The flatline at the hospital. How did John know about that? Had he been keeping tabs on his father this entire time? Had one of the medical staff at the hospital been in contact with him? Had one of the Claremont guards been acting as an informant?  Presently, with Maclolm’s mind so fogged up, he didn’t believe those questions mattered. What mattered was <em> John’s </em>question, which was an entirely valid one. What if Dr. Whitly's heart failed again? With no access to a hospital, no way to resuscitate.</p><p>John seemed to hear his panicked thoughts, and added to them with a mocking, “No precious baby boy to come rescue him.”</p><p>Malcolm shot a hand forward to grab the man by his collar.  A few strands of his hair had fallen in front of his eyes at the sharp movement. His other fist was poised to strike.</p><p>Outside the cell, Lieutenant Arroyo startled. He couldn’t allow Malcolm to hurt the prisoner. It wasn’t legal, and it wasn’t morally right either. The profiler would get both of them in serious trouble if he followed through with his threat.</p><p>That was what Gil prayed it was. Just a threat.</p><p>“Ohhh am I striking a nerve?” Watkins snickered. He hadn’t even flinched.</p><p>Malcolm’s knuckles were stark white.</p><p>Lieutenant Arroyo held his hand on the doorknob of the cell and whispered, “Don’t do it, kid. Don’t do it.”</p><p>Malcolm wanted to do it. He wanted to break the bastard’s nose. He wanted to make him suffer. He wanted to pound the information he needed right out of the psychopath. But it wouldn't work. It wouldn't do any good. It wouldn’t get him what he wanted and it wouldn't help his father.</p><p>After a tense moment, Malcolm let the man’s collar go with a brutal shove. John grinned at the dash of excitement, but appeared disappointed that it hadn’t led to more.</p><p>The profiler took a breath and tried a different tactic.</p><p>“He belongs in prison, John,” he lectured hotly. “His punishment <em> is </em> his life sentence. Boredom causes him more pain than torture. If you want him to suffer, then he <em> will </em> suffer. He <em> has </em> been suffering. For <em> years </em> in Claremont. This is not necessary. This does not bring him the most pain.”</p><p>“Oh I know that.” John shifted in his seat, settling back into his chair. “What would bring him the most pain... would be seeing <em> you </em> in pain.”</p><p>He was right.</p><p>“You’re feeling pain right now, aren’t you?”</p><p>Right again. Malcolm grimaced through it, hiding it as valiantly as he could.</p><p>“What are you gonna do when he’s not there for you, right where you want him, right when you need him?” John stared at his agony, reading it aloud, mesmerized by it. “Who’s going to give you answers when you have those terrible nightmares of yours?”</p><p>Malcolm turned away from the table and crumbled, holding himself together by threads.</p><p>John grinned. “Who are you going to run to when you need help?”</p><p>The profiler brought his tightened gaze up from the concrete ground to the metal door, where he met Gil’s watchful eyes through the window. With a nod and a squint, the lieutenant delivered a telepathic message of, <em>‘You’re okay’</em> and<em> ‘You can do this.’</em> Perhaps even an <em>‘I’m proud of you.’</em> His encouragement and support worked miracles. Gil was always right there if Malcolm needed him. With his heart soothed, the profiler’s logic returned. This was personal, but it was also a case. Malcolm solved cases all the time. He was good at it. He could do this. Now that his emotions were more manageable, Malcolm shut them off. He wracked his brain, which was no longer quite so clouded.</p><p>Taking a big breath, he composed himself and turned back to Watkins. “You said for my final trial, I'd have to endure sacrifice.” He returned to the table, declaring, “I’m willing to make one instead.”</p><p>John’s cruel expression morphed into one of surprise.</p><p>“Tell me where he is, and I'll give you whatever you want,” Malcolm proposed calmly, but earnestly. The profiler had to offer him a reward. Threatening him  was not going to work, negotiating with him was not going to work. He had to give in to the murderer’s demands and make a trade. An exchange of desires.</p><p>“Whatever I want, huh?” John failed to hide an intrigued smile. He canted his head and winced, “That’s a pretty vague term, Malcolm. You’re going to have to be more specific.”</p><p>Malcolm knew what he wanted, and he offered it to him without hesitation.</p><p>“I’ll drop the charges I pressed against you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You <em> what??” </em> Lieutenant Arroyo barked.</p><p>“You heard me.”</p><p>Even Sterling scoffed in disbelief. “That’s very forgiving of you, Mister Bright, but are you <em> sure?” </em></p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Gil hovered a hand between the two of them, “No, we’re going to talk about this.”</p><p>Malcolm wasn’t keen on wasting another minute talking about what he had decided to do. “We don’t have time. I’m dropping the charges.” He turned to the lawyer. “Give me the paperwork.”</p><p>“Pulling it up right now,” Mr. Sterling smirked, tapping away at a sleek business tablet.</p><p>“Malcolm, this is insane!” Gil cried, appalled at what the profiler had told them.</p><p>Malcolm gave him a hurried look. “It’s the only way. He’s not going to give us what we need unless I do this.”</p><p>“Here you are.” Mr. Sterling handed over the tablet. Malcolm took it eagerly.</p><p>Gil glared at the tablet, then the lawyer, irritated by the remarkable speed at which he’d brought up the documents. “You found those mighty fast,” he muttered suspiciously.</p><p>“An attorney is nothing if not organized and efficient,” Mr. Sterling beamed. “Clearly, your case has a mortal urgency to it, and quite frankly, I don’t want to miss out on a future chance to represent my favorite client in court.” He nodded with a greedy squint of his eyes, assuring, “We’re all on the same side, here.”</p><p>Malcolm swiped a finger across the screen to scroll right to where his signature was required.</p><p>Gil stopped him. “Hey, hey, read it first!”</p><p>Malcolm sighed and lifted his eyes to the lawyer. “Can you give us a moment?” </p><p>“Of course.” Mr. Sterling stepped away with an eager grin laced across his face.</p><p>Malcolm turned to the lieutenant and murmured lowly, “Gil, without his information, this case is cold. Dead.” His voice hushed further. “And my father very well could be too.”</p><p>“I get that, but Malcolm, this man--”</p><p>“Is a murderer, I know.”</p><p>“He tried to kill your <em> family!” </em> Gil gasped.</p><p><em> “And he’s going to succeed if I don’t sign this document!” </em> Malcolm hissed, shaking his hands in frustration.</p><p>Gil rolled his head and took a breath, trying to remain compassionate to the kid’s emotions. “What about the <em> other </em> people he killed, Malcolm? What about Stephanie Reyes? And Hailey Wyatts? And the countless others? What about <em> their </em>families?” he inquired gently. There was a bigger picture here.</p><p>“This is only pardoning him of the crimes he committed against <em> me. </em> The kidnapping, the assault, breaking and entering, the damage to my mother’s house. That’s it.” Malcolm passed his hand through the air between them and then continued scrolling through the tablet.</p><p>“You, <em> and </em> your mother and sister,” Gil reminded him firmly. “This isn’t fair to them.” He placed his hands on the profiler’s shoulders and kept the volume of his voice low. “Malcolm, listen to me. What he did to the Whitlys is the <em> only </em> thing Sterling <em> can’t </em> defend him against. The rest of his charges are based on minimal evidence. You are removing a <em> large </em> chunk of the mountain Sterling is trying to clear, and that man is already a bulldozer!” he subtly jutted his thumb behind them. “You sign this, and John Watkins <em> will </em>walk out of this prison.”</p><p>Malcolm glanced at the man briefly, but continued to swipe at the tablet in his hand, tap on a signature box, and sloppily scrawl his name. “With an ankle monitor and a probation officer, at the very least,” he murmured. He moved on to the next box to sign, assuring the lieutenant, “If that does happen, we <em> will </em> get him in cuffs again <em> --before </em>he hurts someone else.”</p><p>Gil sighed and dropped his hands from Malcolm’s shoulders.</p><p>Malcolm came to the bottom of the document and froze for a moment. With a sheepish press of his lips, he looked up. “It requires your signature, too.”</p><p>Lieutenant Arroyo stared at him, then the tablet.</p><p>Malcolm offered him the tablet with a miserable, pleading, fearful look. “Please.”</p><p>Gil hesitated, torn. He took in the sight of Malcolm’s face and then took the tablet, grumbling, “The things I do for you.”</p><p>Despite swallowing a wave of guilt, Malcolm was able to breathe easier.</p><p>And thus, they completed their deal with The Devil.</p>
<hr/><p>After Mr. Sterling’s client signed the digital documentation, the profiler was permitted to enter the interrogation room again. John Watkins was as giddy as a schoolboy.</p><p>“Holy shit,” he laughed heartily. “I can’t believe you actually did it! You really are desperate, aren’t you?”</p><p>Malcolm seared a glare at him. “Now tell me where he is.”</p><p>“Ahhhh Malcolm,” John reveled in his merry mood for a moment, but he gradually regained some humbled self-control. “Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm.” The man dipped his head to scratch his nose with his thumbnail, then popped back up again and spread his hands as much as his anchored cuffs would allow. “Look. I’m going to clear somethin’ up, kid.”</p><p>Shock began to permeate through the determination of Malcolm’s glare. He felt an anvil plummet in his gut before the murderer even said it.</p><p>“I didn’t have a damn thing to do with your father’s disappearance,” John grinned, trying his best not to chuckle as he remorselessly explained, “I was just tryin’ to get you riled up, to see what you’d do.” He tried to wag a pointed finger at the boy. “And you didn’t disappoint. I’m actually looking forward to my trial, now.”</p><p>Malcolm was livid. He’d wasted precious time and made a crucial mistake. This was not funny. This was not a game. This was a matter of life and death. His <em> father’s </em> life and death. He couldn’t afford to waste time here, racing around like a mouse caught in John’s little maze.</p><p>“But!” John called above the young Whitly’s angered thoughts. “I think I know who might be behind this,” he assured. Then he shrugged, “The problem is… I don’t wanna tell ya.”</p><p>“We had a deal!” Malcolm erupted.</p><p>“Let’s make another one!” Watkins proposed enthusiastically.</p><p>Malcolm took a very large, very shaky breath, and tightly clenched his shaking hands at his sides.<br/>
<br/>
John snickered, dipped his head to scratch his nose again, then reared his head and drawled, “I need you to tell me something honestly. Alright? You tell me the truth, and I’ll tell you where I think he could be.”</p><p>Malcolm tried to preserve his patience, which was running paper thin. “Fine! But <em> you </em> have to fulfil <em> your </em>end first this time.”</p><p>“That’s fair,” John held up his hands in surrender as best he could, then asked, “Have you heard of an <em> Ellie Jenks?” </em></p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Ah.” The man admired his memories. “There’s a couple of guys who swore to settle a score over that one. Her brothers.”</p><p>Two males. Malcolm’s hopes lifted. Perhaps they had been the ones to pose as Claremont employees and had commandeered the transport van.</p><p>“Though, you could say that Ellie’s death was <em> both </em>of our fault. Your dad’s and mine.” John made a face and admitted, “You were right, we did share quite a lot. Even had the same office, for a while.”</p><p>“Get to the point.” Malcolm growled.</p><p>“I am!” John whined. <em> “Patience!” </em>That was a virtue his nana had taught him. “In the beginning, our office was split between an auto repair shop and a salvage yard. Small town. Out in the middle of nowhere. I worked there to pay for college.”</p><p>Malcolm did not want to hear a story. He wanted to hear facts. Names, locations, details that could lead him directly to his dad. But he gripped his wrist and listened, gleaning all he could from what John took his sweet time telling him.</p><p>“The scrap yard was a good place to do it,” John reminisced fondly. “Kill people. The owners, Bruce and Trevor, they didn’t ask questions. They had their own demons. Their demons played nice with ours.”</p><p>“Things were good, for a while. Just us, the two Jenks brothers,” his tone changed slightly, “and dear sweet Ellie.”</p><p>Malcolm furrowed his brow.</p><p>“Their little sister,” John explained. “She was eighteen at the time. She worked in the shop with me every week for three years. She had <em> no idea </em> what any of us were up to behind closed doors.”</p><p>John made an expression that was a hybrid of wink and a wince. “I started to have a little fling with her. But Martin didn’t like that. Said that love would get in the way of my divine mission. Make me blind and cloud my judgement.” He looked down at his calloused hands. “He convinced me she had to go.”</p><p>He took in a sigh. “But when I <em> failed </em> to get rid of her, he said If <em> I </em> didn’t kill her, <em> he </em> would.”</p><p>Malcolm stared at the man with a forlorn look cemented to his face.</p><p>“I saw how your dad killed people,” John muttered, fiddling with his fingers. “He liked using <em> tools. </em> ” He added with a shrug, <em> “And </em> his hands, of course. He liked to <em> explore, </em> and <em> try </em> things.”</p><p>Malcolm closed his eyes and looked away for a moment.</p><p>“I decided it would be better for Ellie if I did it myself.” John recalled. He spoke his next words plainly and simply. “So I did. I killed her. The same way I killed my pop. I dropped a car on her head one day while we were working.”</p><p>Malcolm’s face was twisted in a faint grimace.</p><p>Watkins continued, “He was there to watch. To make sure I did it this time, and didn’t change my mind.” He grew a little more agitated. “To calm me down when I lost my <em> shit </em> afterwards.” With a passionate energy, he expressed devoutly, “You see, that was <em> my </em> trial, Malcolm. I made a <em> sacrifice. </em> I chose my work over her.”</p><p>“That’s terrible,” Malcolm whispered.</p><p>John laughed. “No. No, no no, your dad was <em> right. </em> She was in the <em> way. </em> She would have <em> ruined </em> my <em> work. </em> Martin <em> saved me </em> from giving in to <em> temptation,” </em> he preached with a grin on his face. Watkins shook his head and promised, “It was the only way.”</p><p>Malcolm lowered his gaze. The profiler had said that when he’d stabbed his father. When he’d signed those documents. It worried him. It made him worry that one day, <em> he </em> might do something truly horrible, and then claim it had been ‘the only way,’ like this psychopath. He tried not to think about that.</p><p>“Ellie’s brothers were convinced Martin was the one who killed her.” John drawled. “They’d known me for years. <em> He </em> was the stranger. They’d vowed to get revenge one day, but we weren’t too worried about it. Bruce and Trevor had skeletons in their closets too. They couldn’t go to the police, and they didn’t even know who Martin <em> was, </em> at the time.”</p><p>“He was always so <em> anal </em> about keeping his identity protected,” Watkins complained. “Wearing hats and… glasses, and all that shit. Always said, ‘I’ve got a <em> family </em> to go home to now,’ and that he couldn’t take the same risks he used to take.”</p><p>“Your dad and I found a new place to do our business, and we never heard from the Jenks again.” John chuckled, “But oh, with his face all over the news…. they’d recognize him. I guarantee you, they’re the ones who took your dad. Bet they’ve been waiting for years to do it.”</p><p>“Tell me the address of that scrap yard,” Malcolm ordered dully.</p><p>His anger had simmered down after hearing the tale. The tale of another victim. One whose life had been taken during his lifetime. Somehow, that made him feel worse. More responsible, perhaps. He couldn’t help but wonder which day that had been. Which day that his father had come home from ‘work’ with a smile on his face and a treat in his hand. Which wonderful, seemingly-perfect family evening with laughter in their lungs and warmth in their home --meanwhile, two car mechanics had cleaned up their sister’s corpse, with no help, unable to call the police, with grief and anger plaguing the rest of their lives.</p><p>“Now, hold on, I’m not telling you anything else until you hold up your end of the deal,” John smirked. “See, this is where I need you to tell me the truth.”</p><p>“The truth about what?”</p><p>“Your intentions.”</p><p>Malcolm scoffed, “Why do you care about my intentions?”</p><p>“Just curious,” John answered, shaking his head innocently before chuckling, “I wanna know! And I’m in a position where I can <em> demand </em> it, so that’s what I’m gonna do.” He grinned. “Do you <em> still </em>want to save him? Even after hearing that story?”</p><p>Malcolm hesitated, but not because he didn’t have an answer. He did, he just didn’t want to say it out loud. But he said it anyway. “Yes.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because... he’s my dad,” the profiler stated sadly.</p><p>“And….” he took a breath and finally forced it out, confessing his sin to the murderer. Perhaps John was the only one he could ever confess it to.</p><p>Despite all his father’s evils. Despite all that he’d done.</p><p>Malcolm wished he didn’t, but he couldn’t help it. </p><p>“I love him.”</p>
<hr/><p>Lieutenant Arroyo hovered outside, keeping a watchful eye on the profiler through the window again. He glanced down at his watch, easily calculating how long it had been since The Surgeon’s phone call. They were most certainly too late. With a small sign, he lowered his wrist and looked back into the interrogation room. He feared that Malcolm would be destroyed upon finding the final victim in this case, and Gil had no idea how he would comfort him when that time came.</p><p>He noticed that Malcolm had moved. The profiler was scrawling on a notepad from his breast pocket. Gil’s heart started pounding before Malcolm even whirled around to rush for the door.</p><p>Gil held his hand out to accept the note as Malcolm poked his head out of the room, rushing to tell him, “It’s a scrap yard in Orangetown,” and ask, “That’s in our jurisdiction, isn’t it?”</p><p>“It is,” Gil answered, looking at the address on the note. It wasn't terribly far. On the mainland, forty-five minutes north --and that wasn't including the ‘speed boost’ and paved pathway that their blaring sirens gave them.</p><p>“Can we get there before the FBI?”</p><p>“Definitely,” Gil nodded, fumbling quickly to call in his units.</p><p>Malcolm urged, “Go, start driving, I’ll be right behind you,” and then moved to duck back into the interrogation room. Gil jogged down the hall, hearing Malcolm call after him, “You’re looking for a Bruce and Trevor Jenks!”</p><p>The lieutenant left the building, started his cruiser, and drove off with a shrill squeal of his wheels and a great urgency fueling his speedometer. His sirens were wailing before he even reached the bridge. He never thought he’d say it, but he hoped they’d get there in time to save Dr. Whitly. For Malcolm’s sake.</p>
<hr/><p>Lieutenant Arroyo met up with Detective Powell, Detective Tarmel, and a handful of special units at the junkyard. The specialized team sawed through the chains on the fence and poured into the area with their high-caliber firearms drawn, the detectives following with their handguns at the ready. In the early mist-filled hours of the blue-hued morning, the yard was desolate and empty, appearing like a cemetery for rusty vehicles.</p><p>Their walkies crackled. “We’re clear. There's no one here.”</p><p>“Are you kidding me?” Gil growled, lowering his gun. Again, there was nothing. No kidnappers. No Bruce and Trevor Jenks. No cell phone, no hostage situation, nothing seemingly out of place beyond the heaps of scrap metal and junk and abandoned cars. And no Dr. Whitly. “Search the lot! I want no tire left unturned!” he called for everyone to hear through the moist haze.</p><p>Dani was already glancing around in search for something. “Where’s Bright?”</p><p>Gil glanced back at her, then around at the scattered members of their team. The boy should have been right behind them, but the profiler hadn’t reached the junkyard yet. A very bad feeling overcame the lieutenant. “Ohhhhh <em> shit,” </em> he hissed, holstering his gun to exchange it for his phone.</p><p>He’d made a grave mistake. He’d let Malcolm Whitly out of his sight.</p>
<hr/><p>Malcolm floored the gas pedal, diverting from the main highway to turn into the state of New Jersey. He hadn’t exactly lied to Gil. The profiler <em> had </em> driven on the same roads as the lieutenant, and had <em> technically </em> been behind him, for a while. But Malcolm’s destination wasn't quite as far north.</p><p>His button-up shirt and suit jacket hugged tighter around his torso than usual because he hid something beneath them. A bullet-proof vest. A holster and a handgun also adorned his waist, hiding under his jacket. Items the NYPD wouldn’t miss --for long-- and that were meant to be used. Just, not usually by him. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, as the saying went. And he didn’t think that Gil would scold him for taking precautionary measures to protect himself.</p><p>He was driving straight into a trap, after all.</p>
<hr/><p>After Gil had ran for his cruiser, Malcolm had slipped back into the interrogation room.</p><p>John was smiling, still chained to the table. “They’re not gonna like seeing a lot of visitors with flashing lights,” he murmured. “Might make them a bit <em> trigger happy.” </em></p><p>“I know,” Malcolm nodded. “That’s why they’re only going to see <em> one </em>visitor. No flashing lights.”</p><p>John gave him a wary, confused look.</p><p>“Tell me where he <em> really </em> is,” Malcolm asked darkly. “Tell me the address of the auto-repair shop where Ellie was killed.”</p><p>A slow smile crept across The Junkyard Killer’s bearded face. “You’re going alone?” he purred, intrigued.</p><p>Malcolm nodded solemnly. He couldn’t risk giving up control. He couldn’t risk the Jenks brothers getting trigger happy. He couldn't risk a miscommunication or complication of the fragile situation that was waiting for them. This mess would unfold easier if he handled it himself.</p><p>“Ooh, you’re brave,” John praised, impressed.</p><p>“Tell me where the repair shop is,” Malcolm repeated patiently, his eyes unblinking and hawk-like.</p><p>John glanced over him, perhaps no longer seeing him as a little scared boy, but instead a man. A fearless predator, like his dad. “Huh.” He laughed. “Your dad always said you were clever.”</p><p>Finally, John gave in and gave him what he needed to know. “Riptide Autocare. River Vale, New Jersey.”</p><p>Malcolm nodded, perhaps with some sort of emotionless gratitude, and turned to leave.</p><p>“One more thing, kiddo.”</p><p>Malcolm turned back to see John grin one last time. “Watch yourself. It’s a <em> dangerous </em> world out there.”</p><p>Malcolm heard the man’s underlying message loud and clear. He nodded again and assured with a sad smile, “I know.”</p>
<hr/><p>Malcolm had known it was a trap before John’s subtle warning. He’d known it was a trap as soon as he heard John say, <em> ‘they’d vowed to get revenge one day.’ </em> Revenge was a very specific word. It wasn't just anger or hatred. It promised a deliverance of karma. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A family member for a family member.</p><p>The phone call had been a test to see which family member meant the most to his father. It had put a target on Malcolm’s back, but Malcolm welcomed it. He was grateful that his father hadn’t called Ainsley or their mother instead. Martin had known the purpose of that call and he’d knowingly placed that target on his son because he knew the profiler was clever, and would be able to figure it all out and come prepared.</p><p>The only clock that was counting down was the clock hanging over Malcolm’s own head. The Jenks brothers were waiting for him, ready to take their revenge, because as John had said, the greatest pain his father could suffer would be to see his son in pain.</p><p>Malcolm could take a bullet for his dad. He was willing to make that sacrifice and take that risk, just as his father had been willing to make a sacrifice and take a risk when he had allowed his son to stab his beating heart.</p><p>The Surgeon didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to allow Malcolm to stab him. But he had. His father had done what needed to be done to save an innocent life from The Carousel Killer. He had shown that he could be selfless. That fact hadn’t evaded the profiler. Malcolm hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, between hearing the echo of his screams.<br/>
<br/>
It was just another microscopic <em> good </em> quality about him, buried deeply in his haystack of corpses. Malcolm would accept whatever good qualities he could about his father, if only to try and justify the painful mix of emotions he felt for him.</p>
<hr/><p>Riptide Autocare was abandoned and run-down. The windows of the garage bays were frosted with cobwebs and age. The red bricks were sick with erosion the same way the vehicles surrounding it were sick with rust. The front door to the guest lobby was not only unlocked, but open, confirming the profiler’s prediction that someone was there, waiting for him.</p><p>Malcolm flicked the safety and racked the slide of his handgun before getting out of his car. Holding the weapon securely in front of him, aiming low to the ground for now, he crept inside, checking every corner as he passed. The lobby and front offices were clear. He spied a black and white photograph of two men and a young woman in overalls. He didn’t look at it for long, and not only because he had to focus. He didn’t want to put a face to the poor girl who John and his father had murdered.</p><p>The garage was dark and deep. Only a few murky window panels allowed the soft morning sunlight to bathe the shop in rectangle pieces, pitifully illuminating the floor, some work tables, barrels of old oil, and sharp equipment. A few cars were still poised on pistons, their cluttered underbellies looming at head height. He couldn’t see to the end of the bays, his line of sight obscured by the junk and machinery.</p><p>He crept through the garage, listening closely, his blood pulsing through his ears. He expected to find the two brothers waiting for him around the obstacles. Malcolm was ready to negotiate, and confident that he could talk the mechanics down. He could sic them on John, who was being released from prison soon, and would be available for them to take their proper revenge on. He’d convince them that John was the one they wanted. John had done the actual killing, Martin had only been an accessory.</p><p>And Malcolm had proof. He’d recorded John’s story using his phone, hidden in his pocket with the microphone end just barely sticking out. He’d tucked it in the same pocket now, ready to play the exact line he’d need to reveal the truth to the Jenks Brothers and expose John’s confession, proving his father innocent. His father <em> wasn't </em> innocent, in this case --not at all, but it would be enough of a white lie to dampen the brothers’ blood lust. And of course, Malcolm wouldn’t let the mechanics actually get a malicious hold of John, though it was tempting to allow them to.</p><p><em> One step at a time, </em> he reminded himself. First, he had to avoid getting himself killed. Then he had to divert their anger onto the decoy and make them an offer they couldn’t refuse. An exchange. A sacrifice. One murderer’s life for another’s.</p><p>With adrenaline pumping through his veins, the profiler was ready to face two killers. He was ready for anything.</p><p>Anything except… </p><p>“Malcolm!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malcolm whirled around and leveled his gun at... his father.</p><p>“Looking for me?” Dr. Whitly grinned, knowing the answer was ‘yes.’</p><p>He was standing with his hands tucked in the pockets of a pair of jeans, wearing a warm jacket with the hood down and displaying an even warmer smile across his face. A pair of sunglasses were hooked onto his shirt collar. His beard was different. Partially shaved, only existing in a goatee, and dyed dark like his trimmed hair. Malcolm almost didn’t recognize him, at first, which was the point. It was alarming seeing him in anything other than his prison uniform, full grey beard, and cardigan.</p><p>Frozen in confusion, the profiler took in the full sight of his father. The man was perfectly fine, without a visible scratch on him, and looking remarkably happy and healthy. In fact, looking almost as he did twenty years ago. Malcolm didn't know exactly what he had expected. Blood. Bruises. Chains. <em> Something. </em> But there was nothing like that. No blood. No bruises. And most crucially, <em> no chains. </em></p><p>Malcolm was shocked, but still wary that this was part of a trap. Perhaps someone else was there, watching them. Perhaps his father was secretly rigged up with a mic, or camera, or something more dangerous like an explosive or…. No. No, that wasn’t the case at all. No one else was there. There were no Jenks brothers waiting for him. Just his father.</p><p>The profiler hesitated to lower his firearm and identify, “You’re… you're alright.” </p><p><em> “Of course </em> I’m alright!” Martin chuckled, his shoulders bouncing lightly. “I’m just <em> fine! </em> Better than ever!” he assured confidently, watching Malcolm's bewilderment unfold. “But I <em> do </em> appreciate your concern, dear boy. The look on your <em> face. </em>”</p><p>“But… the Jenks brothers….” Malcolm exhaled.</p><p>“Oh, they’ve been dead for years,” Dr. Whitly waved a hand as if it was trivial. “Their demons caught up to them. Gang stuff. You know how it is.”</p><p>A low rumble of distant thunder curled through the atmosphere. Neither man noticed, nor looked away from the other.</p><p>“If you would have run a simple <em> database check </em> you would have <em> known </em> that,” Martin chided with a smile. “But you rushed here so fast,” he chuckled, trailing off. He looked at the profiler with fondness in his eyes. “You really went to the <em> ends of the Earth </em> to <em> ‘save’ </em> me,” he snickered as if they'd played a fun game together. “You and your hero complex. I heard you even dropped your charges against <em> John, </em> good for you!"</p><p>Malcolm’s throat ran dry as the color drained from his face.</p><p>With a twinkle in his eyes, Dr. Whitly took one hand out of his pocket to wag a finger at him, “You said it, didn’t you?” He took a step closer. “You said those three little words.” His teeth gleamed beneath his grin-- despite the sunlight having faded from the windows. </p><p>Another calm rumble of thunder echoed from outside the repair shop. </p><p>“I knew you’d say them again, one day.” Dr. Whitly took another step. “Of course, I would have preferred that you said them directly to<em> me, </em> but that’s alright.” he pardoned with a nod. “I know you love me, son. I’ve always known.”</p><p>Malcolm’s hands trembled as he helplessly stood rooted to the spot. This wasn't happening. This couldn’t be happening.</p><p>“I mean, who <em> wouldn’t?” </em> Martin joked arrogantly.</p><p>“It was you.” Malcolm felt as if a dagger was sinking into his quaking heart. Like <em> he </em>was the one being stabbed this time. Relentlessly. He was crippled with heartbreak. “It was you all along.”</p><p>Dr. Whitly made a face. “Please. Are you really so surprised? You <em> know </em>me, Malcolm.” He prompted eagerly, “And what am I?”</p><p>Malcolm was too stunned to answer and too hurt to breathe.</p><p>“A predatory psychopath,” Martin finished with a low curl of his voice --a purr with the underlying potential for a growl, or perhaps even a roar if one was unfortunate enough to hear it. “That’s right. And that means I’m <em> always in control, </em> doesn’t it?” he cooed gently.</p><p>“How did…?” Malcolm sputtered. “The gas tank… the stolen badges....” His mind was a blur with every part of it. Everything he knew --or <em> thought </em>he knew-- had been wrong. </p><p>“Well, I didn’t do it <em> all </em> by myself. No, I had help, son. Of course,” Dr. Whitly scoffed, taking another step to place himself nearly at arm’s length in front of his son. “You were so worried about my <em> enemies </em> … you didn’t stop to think about my <em> friends.” </em></p><p>Friends. Malcolm blinked, catching his breath as if he’d just ran a marathon. “Sterling.” The meticulous, prepared, efficient lawyer. “And John.” Who had probably agreed to participate in this plan because he’d get probation out of it. Malcolm’s trust was so shaken, he even began to question Mr. David’s innocence.</p><p>“I also had <em> you,” </em> Martin reminded him, willing to give proper credit to the best team player. “If you would have never stabbed me, I would never have been removed from that godforsaken fortress. So <em> thank you, </em> Malcolm. Really. From the bottom of my scarred heart,” he shook his head and grinned humorously.</p><p>Malcolm felt sick. His father hadn’t agreed to that stunt to selflessly save an innocent person from The Carousel Killer. He’d let him stab him because it would get him out of Claremont, and give him a chance to escape. It was <em> all </em>planned. Malcolm’s mind whirled like a flipbook through past events, past conversations, the days, the hours, the minutes. It all made terrible sense and it nauseated him. Fascinated him. Horrified him. Awed him.</p><p>How far back did his father’s plotting go?</p><p>His train of thought would only lead him down a deep, dark rabbit hole. His father interrupted it. “But none of that matters. What matters is; I’m fine!” he spread his arms, completely aware of how conceited he sounded, and thoroughly entertained by it.</p><p>Another grumble of thunder churned through the air.</p><p>Malcolm had walked right into a trap after all. He’d come here, alone, without his team, just like his father had wanted. He’d been played like a flute. Manipulated like a puppet. For a moment, Malcolm felt very small all over again. Like he was facing something much bigger than himself that he could never hope to conquer. He felt powerless, and in complete loss of control.</p><p>“I have a gift for you.”</p><p>Like Christmas.</p><p>Malcolm watched as Dr. Whitly took something small out from his jacket. A Nokia flip phone.</p><p>“Whenever you need me, just give me a call on this phone.” Martin reached forward to place it against the young man’s chest.</p><p>Malcolm brought a shaking hand up to it --and realized that the liberated serial killer was much too close for comfort. He gasped in a breath and took a step back to stumble away from him, his trance shattered with sudden fear.</p><p>The Surgeon remained where he stood, muttering, “Since your other one is... compromised.”</p><p>The profiler glanced down at the gifted device in his hand as if it burned.</p><p>“Now, don’t lose it,” Dr. Whitly instructed. “And don’t let your friends in the NYPD find it. This is the only one I'm giving to you.”</p><p>Malcolm threw a perplexed look at his father, who took a duplicate phone out of his pocket and waved it. “They’re a matched pair. Glorified walkie-talkies, as it was explained to me.”</p><p>What the <em> fuck </em>was he talking about?</p><p>“You can contact me at <em> any </em> time,” his father promised. “I will keep this with me <em> twenty-four seven. </em> Even in the shower,” he smirked. “Alright?”</p><p>“N-no,” Malcolm stuttered. Did his dad think that he was just going to let him <em> walk away </em> from this? Was he <em> crazy? </em> That was a stupid question. “No, you’re going back to prison!” Malcolm shouted, finding his voice and remembering that he had a gun in his other hand. He raised it.</p><p>Martin tipped his head and gave him a look. “If you wanted me locked up again, you would have brought your friends with you.”</p><p>“I thought you were in <em> DANGER!” </em> Malcolm screamed, storming closer.</p><p>The outdoor storm, too, had rolled closer, now hovering directly above them.</p><p>“Well, there <em> is </em> a gun in my face,'' Dr. Whitly muttered with slight irritation, though he wasn't afraid in the slightest. Malcolm could never kill him.</p><p>Malcolm’s rage had overtaken him. He pocketed the flip phone --which Martin noticed with a  smirk-- only so he could grip his firearm tightly in both hands, “You <em> tricked </em> me! You made me <em> fear for you!” </em></p><p>“Oh, no, you did that <em> yourself, </em> Malcolm. <em> You’re </em> the one who let your imagination run wild.”</p><p>Rain began to patter on the tin roof.</p><p>“Shut up!” Malcolm snapped, seething. “Don't pretend that you’re innocent! You killed those guards! Ritter and--"</p><p>Martin shook his head calmly, patiently, gently, “No I didn’t, son. You know that.”</p><p>“Then who <em> did? </em> Someone Sterling hired? <em> Who?” </em> Malcolm had to know. He had to correct his mistakes. He had to find the real killer. <em> “ </em> You’re working with someone! Someone’s working with you! <em> What happened!?” </em></p><p>“What happened was <em> I struck a deal,” </em>The Surgeon answered tightly, clearly willing for him to drop it.</p><p>Malcolm clamped his hands around the gun. “What was the deal? What did you exchange for your release?” Nobody would simply go through all the trouble of releasing The Surgeon for the hell of it.</p><p>“Shh shh, don't overthink things,” Dr. Whitly advised, warning him <em> nicely </em>to calm down.</p><p>Malcolm did not calm down. <em> “What did you trade!?" </em></p><p>Their voices rose, building on each other’s and nearly drowning out the torrent of rain that was now pelting the repair shop.</p><p>“The point is, <em> I didn't kill them. </em> I haven’t killed <em> anyone, </em> since I left. My hands are <em> clean!” </em>Martin declared loudly.</p><p>“BULLSHIT!” Malcolm roared.</p><p>Martin roared back. “IT’S <em> TRUE, </em> MALCOLM!”</p><p>Dr. Whitly took a threatening step forward as he roared. Malcolm lowered his gun to aim at his father’s leg-- which stopped Martin cold. The profiler <em> would </em>shoot him, if he got too close, if he got too angry. He could shoot him without killing him, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do so if he was provoked.</p><p>Martin exhaled a long sigh, floating a hand in front of himself to ease his son and assure him that he would not have to go to such drastic measures. The profiler seared a glare at him and kept his arms straight, unwilling to be consoled.</p><p>“Listen to me,” Dr. Whitly asked solemnly, his fire doused. “It wasn't <em> just </em>my release.”</p><p>Malcolm listened, starved for more information. Starved for the truth.</p><p>“It was a second chance. A new start.”</p><p><em> “What?” </em> Malcolm hissed.</p><p>“I--” Martin glanced away for a moment, piecing together his words carefully. “I have an opportunity to have a <em> real </em> relationship with you, now. And that's what I <em> want, </em> Malcolm. That’s <em> all </em>I want,” he pleaded, as if he were innocent and harmless. Malcolm didn't buy it. “I want another chance. A chance to redeem myself.”</p><p>“You don't get that chance,” the profiler growled bitterly.</p><p>Martin’s softened expression tightened with a hint of determination. “Oh, but I do. Right now, I have it. I'm going to take it.” The man took another breath, torn between fear and sorrow. “But if you <em> won’t… </em> then that’d be a real shame, Malcolm.”</p><p>“Don't you want to have a <em> real </em>relationship with me, too?” Martin appealed with a wince.</p><p>They stared at each other. Malcolm couldn’t look away, but he knew he was being read like a book. A faint smile returned to his father’s face, as did a sense of peace. “I know you do,” Martin read aloud.</p><p>“No,” Malcolm denied with a bite. “No, I don’t believe a <em> word </em>you’re saying.”</p><p>Dr. Whitly’s smile dropped as frustration weighed it down. “I spent <em> twenty years </em> in that prison, Malcolm. Twenty years! And that whole time, I was trying--!” his voice caught in his throat. “I was trying to <em> fix </em>things between us.”</p><p>Malcolm shook his head.</p><p>His father continued, “There’s only so much I can do behind bars... to repair what I broke, and I <em> will </em>repair it. I’ll do whatever it takes, son.” His words were warm and strong and devoted. But they also resembled a threat, if one listened to them closely enough.</p><p>“You’re insane,” Malcolm hissed bitterly.</p><p>“You don't think I can do it.” Dr. Whitly jabbed an accusational finger at his son, then himself. “You don't think I can live a <em> normal </em> life, <em> without </em> bloodshed, but I <em> can. </em> I can, and I <em> will.” </em></p><p>Martin took another breath to cool himself and permitted, “You can hold me to it,” as if he were proposing some kind of truce or asking him to join forces.</p><p>Or asking for a kind of forgiveness. A kind of forgiveness that would release him, like that which Malcolm had given to John, in legal terms. The profiler processed his father’s plea. He was essentially being offered the role of a probation officer. But he couldn’t take it. He <em> wouldn’t </em> take it.</p><p>“What about the other twenty four people you killed?” he prompted hotly. “What about Ellie Jenks? And the girl in the box!?” If he let his father have this second chance, it wouldn’t be fair to his catalog of victims.</p><p>Dr. Whitly closed his eyes and dipped his head, admitting, “I did some... <em> very </em> bad things, a very <em> long </em>time ago.”</p><p>Malcolm only heard an excuse, and then what he believed to be a lie.</p><p>“But I am… <em> not </em> going to do them again,” Martin vowed, shaking his head as he looked back up at his son. “I've lost so much time with you Malcolm.” He agonized through his words, taking a small step forward to really deliver them to the profiler. “I’ve lost so many opportunities to be there for you. To <em> teach </em> you. To <em> help </em> you. To <em> love </em> you. To be your <em> dad. </em> I don't want to lose <em> this </em>opportunity."</p><p>Malcolm took a step back, maintaining the distance between them, and not allowing it to close by even an inch. But he was not afraid. He was not buying into any of this, either. Martin gazed at his son’s expression, which was firmly set in a tight anger and pain. The Surgeon waited. He waited for an answer. For a question, for anything. But all he got was, “I’m calling Gil. And you’re going back to Claremont.”</p><p>Malcolm’s grip was no longer compressing his gun. He removed one hand from it to take his smart phone out of his pocket.</p><p>Dr. Whitly suddenly looked very tired, and very disappointed. After a moment, he murmured defeatedly, “I could have left, you know.”</p><p>Malcolm brought his smartphone up beside his gun so he could both aim and tap without getting distracted.</p><p>“I could have snuck away to wherever I wanted,” Martin shrugged, listing, “Canada, Europe, Fiji, the beach, the mountains, oh <em> God, </em> how I've <em> missed </em> the mountains.”</p><p>Malcolm closed the audio application, where John’s sound bite had been loaded and ready to play. He tapped to open the calling app.</p><p>“But I didn't.” Martin took a bold step forward. Malcolm lowered his phone and focused on his aim, which stopped his father’s movement. But he kept talking. “I stuck around because I want to stay connected to you, Malcolm. You're my <em> son. </em> You're the <em> only </em> thing that truly matters to me,” he professed. “Not my freedom, not my art. My <em> son.” </em></p><p>He had a point, but Malcolm didn't know if he believed him. He only knew that he <em> shouldn’t. </em></p><p>“Do you know how dangerous it was for me to come here? To meet you here?” Dr. Whitly asked, pointing at Maclolm’s other pocket, “Do you know how much of a risk I’m taking by giving you that phone?”</p><p>Gil’s number was only one tap away, but Malcolm didn’t call it. He stared into his father’s eyes instead.</p><p>“I’m taking those risks for <em> you,” </em> Martin whispered.</p><p>They stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Martin shook his head and murmured lowly, “If they find me, I'm not going back in that cell. I'm going in the<em> chair.” </em></p><p>“Don't put me in that chair, Malcolm.”</p><p>“Stop it,” the profiler hissed. “Just stop.” He couldn't listen to anything his dad said. It was all manipulation, and Malcolm knew it. He couldn't trust a <em> damn thing </em> he said.</p><p>Even if it was true.</p><p>“I’m going to change,” Martin promised, like he was Ebenezer Scrooge at the grave. “I’m going to be a better person. For <em> you. </em> Please, just give me a chance to <em> prove </em> that to you.”</p><p>Malcolm held his gaze with a mosaic of emotions churning on his face. He looked down at his phone, at Gil’s number, which glowed up at him like a holy light shining in the center of a hellish pit. The hand that was holding it was trembling. The profiler’s gun-wielding arm had weakened, but he had not lowered the weapon completely. He closed his eyes for a moment, turning his lips inward and breathing shallowly through his nose.</p><p>Then his phone buzzed.</p><p>They both glanced at it.</p><p>It was Gil.</p><p>A loud clap of thunder shook the sky above them. Rain rattled against the roof like someone was pouring beads from a bottomless container.</p><p>Malcolm hesitated.</p><p>Martin waited.</p><p>The profiler finally swiped to answer the call and brought the smartphone up to his ear, matching his gaze with his father’s.</p><p>Gil’s grumpy voice greeted him. “Where the hell are you? I thought you were right behind us.”</p><p>Malcolm took a breath and answered with a dry voice, “Not far. I'm just on the other side of the border.”</p><p>“Good.” Gil seemed to relax. “And don’t worry, we didn’t find anything. Again.”</p><p>Malcolm closed his eyes, recalling his worry. It had been so stupid of him to feel it in the first place. He should have never been worried for The Surgeon.</p><p>Gil’s voice continued, “We’re doing a detailed sweep of the lot right now. How long before you get here?”</p><p>Martin glanced between the murmuring phone and his son’s eyes, waiting patiently and quietly, as if the slightest disturbance from him would break an invisibility spell and broadcast his presence.</p><p>Malcolm was speechless. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He tried again, but still, he couldn’t bring himself to speak. He could only stare into his father’s eyes and listen to Gil’s distant voice.</p><p>“Malcolm? Are you okay?”</p><p>“Yes, I’m okay,” Malcolm croaked, slowly crumbling all over again. “I’m okay, I just…” He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t break down in front of his dad. He couldn't be weak and cry and give into his emotions in front of The Surgeon<em> . </em></p><p>“No, you’re not,” Gil identified. “Don’t lie to me, kid.”</p><p>The profiler fought back a lump in his throat. It was only getting in the way of what he needed to say. What he should say. What he should have <em> already </em> said --the second he’d answered Gil’s timely call. All he had to say was just a few little words, and the authorities would descend upon the repair shop like flies on a… corpse.</p><p>“You don’t sound okay <em> at all. </em>Where are you?”</p><p>“I’m… I’m….” Malcolm stared at his dad, unable to see him as anything else in that moment. Just his dad. Not a serial killer.</p><p>Martin Whitly looked so ordinary right now. So normal. So patient and calm and harmless. It was so convincing. Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he saw his father in normal clothes. He looked like he was ready to go throw a football with him at the park. He looked like he had taken a day off work to go to the Natural History Museum with him and learn all about the Egyptian mummies. He looked like he was ready to brew some hot cocoa and sit down at the dining room table to help him with his math homework.</p><p>Malcolm couldn't help but wonder, ‘<em> What if?’ </em>What if things could be normal, now? That was all Malcolm had ever wanted. To be normal. If only it was so easy as putting on a change of clothes. But it wasn’t possible for them to be normal. It wasn't possible for either of them.</p><p>However, maybe they could at least achieve something <em> close. </em></p><p>“Are you safe?”</p><p>Malcolm didn’t exactly know how to answer the lieutenant. Physically? Probably, but it still wasn't a complete guarantee. His dad wouldn't <em> kill him, </em> but he could do plenty of other things to him. Like psychologically torture him with promises of a normal life, free of bloodshed, and with visions of a real relationship with him, outside of a cell.</p><p>The profiler struggled to respond. “Um.”</p><p>“Kid, I’m gonna count to three,” Gil threatened, concerned.</p><p>Martin watched his son closely. </p><p>“One.”</p><p>Malcolm’s breath was stuck. Why couldn’t he just say it? Why couldn’t he just say he’d found The Surgeon at Riptide Autocare in River Vale, New Jersey? That was all he had to say. Why couldn’t he just say it?</p><p>“Two.”</p><p>Because he wanted his father’s promises to be true. He wanted him to change. He wanted to give him a chance. He wanted to believe what he’d said, that his son was more important to him than his freedom and his murders.</p><p>But it didn’t matter what he wanted. It only mattered what was right.</p><p>‘Three’ never came. Instead, the phone crackled and popped as a great sound erupted from the other end of it. Malcolm flinched and took it away from his ear. That had not been thunder.</p><p>“Gil?” He pressed the phone back to his ear, straining to listen to anything that came out of it. Nothing did. <em> “Gil?” </em></p><p>“Oooh,” Martin looked concerned too, though not at all genuinely. “That did <em> not </em> sound good.”</p><p>Terror tingled through Malcolm's veins. He raised the gun up to his father again. “What was that? <em> What was that?” </em> he demanded.</p><p>“I don’t know, son. You better go check it out,” The Surgeon suggested innocently, but also as if the boy should <em> hurry. </em></p><p>Malcolm was already sidestepping away, but he felt torn. He couldn’t just <em> leave. </em> This psychopath would get away. But…</p><p>“Go on, it’s alright,” Martin encouraged, watching him with a warm smile. “Remember, I’m just a call away.”</p><p>Malcolm turned and ran, still holding the phone to his ear. It remained dead silent. </p><p>As his son left, Martin’s smile curled upwards.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Whoops I wrote too much and had to add another chapter. Enjoy the second-to-last part of the fic!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Detective Powell slowly uncovered her head. With ringing ears, she squinted through a splitting headache --as well as the smoke and fog-- to spot Detective Tarmell a few yards away. Rain gently sprinkled from the sky, but it wasn't enough to extinguish the pieces of burning rubber, fabric, and leather that dotted the debris field. It was difficult to hear each other and themselves, but they conveyed that they were okay, more or less. Certainly damaged with impressive bruises, scrapes, and cuts, but nothing immediately life threatening.</p><p>Dani readied her gun as she knelt beside JT, their hearts pounding and adrenaline pumping. Whoever planted that explosive could still be in the junkyard. They faintly heard the screech of tires, and barely heard a man’s calls, but it was only Malcolm who ran into view.</p><p>“Are you guys alright!?” he gasped, his hair stringy and dripping with rain.</p><p>Detective Powell lowered her gun and nodded. JT did too, but before they could warn Malcolm that the danger may still be present, he was running away again --in proper Malcolm fashion. “Wait!”</p><p>“Where’s Gil?” he cried, searching frantically around the area. A bomb had definitely detonated, perhaps even multiple. There was metallic debris scattered everywhere.</p><p>“He went over there to call you!” Dani pointed, stumbling after the profiler with JT groggily following. Detective Tarmell was mumbling about not being paid enough for this shit and pulling out his phone.</p><p>Malcolm slid to a halt on the wet, loose gravel. He found the lieutenant.</p><p>“No,” he exhaled.</p><p>Lieutenant Arroyo was sprawled on the ground, unconscious and bleeding, with a few small objects lodged in his neck. <em> “Shit,” </em>Malcolm hissed, rushing to his side to examine him. Dani and JT were slower to follow suit, horror-struck.</p><p>“Gil? Gil, can you hear me?” Malcolm called, gently slipping his hand behind his head. He didn’t feel any major fracture in his vertebrae. But he didn’t feel a pulse under his jawline either. He fearfully switched to feel the other side of the man’s neck, where he could feel a faint one. “Check if he’s breathing,” the profiler ordered as he forced open the lieutenant’s shirt. </p><p>Dani knelt beside them and held her hair back, tipping her head near Gil’s mouth to listen for breath. “Um, it-it’s shallow,” she mumbled nervously.</p><p>Malcolm was relieved to find that most of the shrapnel that had hit the man’s torso had been absorbed by the ballistic vest, but the gravel was soaked in red around his left shoulder where the majority of the damage was. Rain drops pathetically plunked around them, as if a despondent God was half heartedly offering them a shower to wash away the blood. “Call an ambulance!” the profiler cried.</p><p>“JT’s on it,” Dani assured him, zipping open her fanny pack to pull out some gauze. Malcolm began carefully but quickly stuffing it in Gil’s wounds, mindful of the shrapnel embedded in his neck. It consisted of shards of metal from the body of a car.</p><p>Detective Tarmell winced as he listened to the phone against his ear.</p><p>“What are they saying?” Malcolm called as he worked. “How long before they can come??”</p><p>“Uh, thirty minutes.”</p><p><em> “Thirty minutes??” </em>That wasn't acceptable. Malcolm turned to Dani, who was trying to help stop the bleeding in his other wounds. “Where’s the nearest hospital?” </p><p>She took her hands away to fumble with her own phone, struggling to operate the touch screen with her wet fingers. “I-I'm looking it up. Uh, there's a family clinic. Seven minutes away.”</p><p>Malcolm shook his head. That was for patients with colds, or the flu. He doubted they even had x-ray machines, and they certainly didn’t have an OR. “No, he needs a hospital!” he snapped.</p><p>“The closest one is, um, about the same. Thirty minutes away,” Dani sputtered.</p><p>Malcolm grit his teeth and stared at the wounds in Gil’s neck, trying to protect the gauze from soaking up the rain when it needed to soak up blood instead. The man didn’t have thirty minutes. <em> “What about a helicopter?” </em> he nearly screamed.</p><p>“Can’t fly in these conditions,” JT mumbled, putting his phone away and joining them. “An ambulance is on the way,” he informed them, staring down at his unconscious supervisor. “We just... gotta sit tight, man.”</p><p>Malcolm struggled to breathe, wild eyed with fear as his mind whirled.</p><p>Dani gave him a pained look, verbalizing the misfortune that was on all of their minds. “Malcolm... he’s not going to make it.”</p><p>“Yes, he will,” Malcolm argued tightly. Standing, he turned and ran. Within thirty seconds, he had pulled his car into the lot, beside the fallen officer. “Help me get him inside!” he called, bursting out of the driver’s door without cutting the engine. </p><p>“Bright--”</p><p>“Just do it!” he commanded.</p><p>Dani and JT helped him hoist the lieutenant into the backseat, one keeping control of his head and neck the entire time. When the transfer was complete, Malcolm flew to the driver’s side.</p><p>“Bright, what are you doing!?”</p><p>“I’m going to meet the ambulance,” he explained before slamming the door shut. He could have taken them with him, but they were too slow, and he was in too much of a hurry to wait for them.</p><p>Bewildered, Detective Powell called, “What if you miss it?”</p><p>The vehicle was already churning gravel beneath its tires, bee-lining it for the gates. But Dani was right. It was an impractical strategy. Malcolm had no way to ensure that he would be taking the same roads as the ambulance. Even if he would be, there could be a median between their lanes of traffic, and even if there wasn’t, he couldn’t guarantee that he’d be able to flag them down.</p><p>Turning around the block, Malcolm slowed and pulled out his smartphone, starting a GPS route to the nearest hospital. Like the detective had told him, it was thirty minutes away, and there were already traffic delays on the main highway.</p><p>The profiler winced hopelessly at his phone, then looked up and around the empty streets through the rain-streaked windows of his car. The small town was deserted, as if it had suffered an apocalypse. He dropped his phone in his lap and gripped his hair, tears welling in his eyes. Wracked with despair, he hit the dashboard repeatedly and cursed with each strike.</p><p>Regaining his breath and wrestling with his emotions, he looked back at Gil, whose blood was puddling on the leather bench seats. Then the profiler stuck his hand in his other pocket to draw out a second phone.</p><p>He was desperate. And angry.</p><p>It was the first time he really looked at the flip phone --not that there was much to look at. There was no contact list. No applications beyond the speed dial and the camera, which was probably just as ancient and shitty as Claremont's. Malcolm pressed the speed dial. It began ringing, though no number displayed on the tiny screen. A glorified walkie talkie indeed.</p><p>The call was almost immediately answered.</p><p><em> “Dad!?” </em> Malcolm snarled instantly.</p><p>“Well, whaddaya know, it works!”</p><p><em> “You did this, </em> you sick bastard,” Malcolm yelled, “YOU DID THIS!”</p><p>“What? Did what?” Martin whined with perfect innocence.</p><p>“There was a <em> bomb </em>in the junkyard!”</p><p>“Oh dear.”</p><p>Malcolm hissed, “You have to help him.”</p><p>“Help who?”</p><p>“GIL!” Malcolm cried with urgent rage.</p><p>His father sounded intrigued. “Ooh, the one that got away.”</p><p>Malcolm glanced at the lieutenant slumped in his backseat, reaching a hand over to feel for his pulse and breath. “He’s unconscious. He’s got, um, shards in his neck. He’s not breathing well and he’s bleeding.”</p><p>“Mm, that’s gotta hurt.” Martin didn’t seem concerned in the slightest.</p><p>“Where are you?” Malcolm demanded. The man couldn’t have gone far. It’d only been seven minutes since he’d left the repair shop.</p><p>“Where’s this junkyard you mentioned?” his father asked casually. “There's so many around, it’s not a very good point of reference."</p><p>Malcolm screamed into the flip phone, “Don't <em> FUCKING </em> play games with me, <em> you know where it is!” </em></p><p>“Sorry, I didn’t catch that, could you speak any<em> louder?" </em></p><p>This was dragging on, and every second counted. The profiler shrieked, <em> “Post Street! Seventy t--” </em></p><p>“Oh, <em> that </em>junkyard, yes!” his father interrupted. “That’s not far from me at all.”</p><p>Malcolm stared back at Gil, reaching to hold the gauze and stanch the blood flowing from his neck. “You <em> need </em>to help him!”</p><p>“I don’t <em> ‘need’ </em> to do anything, Malcolm,” The Surgeon warned.</p><p>The profiler blinked to clear the blurriness in his vision. “Please, I'm <em> begging </em>you.”</p><p>“Why are you calling <em> me? </em>”</p><p>“Because--!” Malcolm choked on a sob. Because The Surgeon had <em> wanted </em> him to. He’d planned <em> all </em>of this. Malcolm wasn't being fooled anymore. He was a mouse trapped in another psychological maze of terror and helpless to get out.</p><p>Martin pretended to guess, “Is it because an ambulance isn’t going to get there in time?”</p><p>“Dad, <em> please, </em> he’s dying!”</p><p>“Hospital too far away?” the man listed rhetorically, “Storm preventing a helicopter from flying in?”</p><p>“I’ll do anything! PLEASE, I’ll do <em> anything, </em> just <em> help him!” </em> Malcolm wailed.</p><p>“Anything?”</p><p>“YES!” All he could do was repeat that word. <em> Yes, yes, </em> over and over, paired with <em> please, </em> until he didn’t have the breath to speak anymore, only sucking in oxygen to cry.</p><p>There was a silence that was far too long. Malcolm sobbed in it, convinced his father was simply going to listen to him lament as Gil bled out in his car. Rain trickled down the windows as if the world was crying along with him.</p><p>A small hum resonated from the phone, as if The Surgeon was thinking. Then, finally, he gave a low, “You can start by heading south.”</p><p>Malcolm sucked in a breath and looked up. <em> Where the fuck was south? </em> He oriented himself quickly and sped off.</p><p>“I’ll meet you at the very end of Baxter Road.”</p><p><em> Baxter Road, Baxter Road, Baxter Road. </em> Malcolm found it and turned, then flattened the gas pedal with a roar of the engine.</p><p>“White Pine Veterinary Hospital. Big red sign.”</p><p>
  <em> White Pine, red sign, White Pine... </em>
</p><p>“And I’m sure it goes without saying, but... don’t invite any friends.”</p><p>His father hung up.</p><hr/><p>Dr. Whitly stood outside, holding an umbrella and playfully rolling the rod across his shoulder. As the umbrella spun, it scattered rain droplets around him like sparks flying from a whirling saw blade. He was already wearing a surgical cap, mask, and gown, which was covered by a transparent rain poncho. A stethoscope hung from his neck in traditional doctor fashion. Beside him was a stretcher, protected by a blue tarp.</p><p>Staring up at the dark heavens, he admired the way the clouds subtly passed overhead with their looming mass and thick grey cotton. They were beautiful, and the stormy air smelled so nice. He held out a palm to feel the rain land on his bare hand. Twenty years.</p><p>A black sedan came barreling down Baxter Road. It was obvious that Malcolm was exercising great self control not to squeal to a halt, instead pulling to a gentle stop quickly but carefully in the slick conditions.</p><p>Dr. Whitly pushed the stretcher close to the car and folded the tarp back as his son scrambled out of the vehicle to throw open the door and pull Gil onto it. Martin held the umbrella above the three of them and watched. He didn’t perform any great physical work to help the profiler, still healing from his surgery. But he did brace the gurney with his body so it didn’t roll out from under the patient during the transfer. The Surgeon smiled behind his mask at the sight of Gil being pulled onto the sacrificial altar. A sight for sore eyes. Another Christmas reunion.</p><p>“Open his vest,” he instructed, his voice slightly muffled by his mask. He subtly glanced around the street to make sure no one had followed Malcolm there. The rural streets were barren as far as the eye could see.</p><p>Malcolm quickly yanked open the Velcro straps securing Lieutenant Arroyo’s ballistic vest and then held the front panel aside to expose his bruised chest.</p><p>Martin handed the umbrella to his son and started an inspection, taking the stethoscope from around his neck. With it, he listened to the Lieutenant’s stomach, sides, heart, lungs. He peeled open the man’s eyelids and shone a light in his pupils. Finally, he superficially examined the penetrating wounds that violated his platysma.</p><p>Malcolm was on edge the entire time, and it felt like the seconds stretched into hours. “Can you help him?” he gasped between catching his breath.</p><p>Dr. Whitly didn’t answer. He only took the stethoscope out of his ears, hooked it back around his neck, draped the tarp over his patient like a cadaver’s blanket, and took the umbrella from Malcolm. “Take him inside.” </p><p>Alarmed, Malcolm obeyed. The rain pattered harshly on the tarp as he wheeled the stretcher towards the open double doors of the veterinary clinic. Dr. Whitly glanced around the street again before following his son inside, closing and locking the doors behind him.</p><hr/><p>As he strode into the prepped OR, The Surgeon shed his rain poncho and grabbed some gloves from a box on a cart. Beside the box of gloves was a folded gown, two face shields, and another surgical mask and cap. “Put those on.”</p><p>Malcolm glanced at the equipment and reached for them, hurrying to gear up. The Surgeon adjusted the stretcher under the lights of the room and grabbed an otoscope from a table of tools. With his thumb and second finger, he held Gil’s head steady and inserted the otoscope in each ear.</p><p>The profiler was just finishing with his gloves when his dad pushed another little metal cart at him. On it was a little machine, a blood pressure cuff, and a pulse oximeter. Malcolm immediately went to work, placing the oximeter on Gil’s finger and then wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his upper arm and operating it.</p><p>“Read me the numbers,” his father murmured, putting away the otoscope.</p><p>Malcolm read them from the machine, speaking loudly and clearly through his surgical mask. His father rolled a towel to shape a cushion beneath the base of Gil’s skull, tilting his head back at a thirty degree angle and propping it there. He was efficient in his movements and wasted no time, but he also moved far too casually for Malcolm's liking.</p><p>“Grab that blue resuscitator.” </p><p>Malcolm turned and found it, hurrying to place the mask over Gil’s mouth.</p><p>“One squeeze every six seconds. Don’t count too fast.”</p><p>Dr. Whitly used his stethoscope to listen to key places on their patient’s torso again as Malcolm patiently squeezed the bag every six <em> agonizingly long </em>seconds.</p><p>“Lucky for <em> him, </em> his airway doesn’t seem to be severed,” Martin muttered, like it was a downright shame.</p><p>The Surgeon moved to the equipment table and prepared an IV, explaining, “His tympanic membrane is intact and his insides don’t sound <em> too </em> bad, so there’s little chance of an alveolar rupture or any major intrathoracic wounds.” He attached some tubing to a drip bag of medication and flicked a couple syringes that were already filled with drugs before moving to Gil’s arm, finding a point of entry, and slipping a needle under his skin. “But he is hypoxemic, so we’re going to give him a sedative and intubate him.” He gestured lazily to the shrapnel and red gauze that was stuffed into the man’s neck. “Then we’ll address <em> that </em>mess.”</p><p>While he counted under his breath and squeezed the resuscitator, Malcolm watched his father. The man was meticulous and calm, like when he used to brew tea. As the profiler stared at the drugs, he was reminded of his father’s favorite. Ketamine. Sedatives and paralytics were The Surgeon’s choice of poison. The boy couldn’t help but think about the stiff, cold bodies of the victims he’d seen in The Copycat Surgeon’s case.</p><p>His father didn’t kill his patients, he reminded himself. It was the only thing keeping the profiler’s sanity intact, at the moment.</p><p>But then he heard the memory of Corey Wheaton’s voice testifying, <em> ‘That’s a lie.’  </em></p><p>What if it <em> was </em>a lie?</p><p>Malcolm had lost count. He swallowed his nausea and tried to recall where he’d left off. He had to focus. Gil’s life was in his hands just like it was in his father’s.</p><p>Dr. Whitly was now placing the nodes for an EKG, moving swiftly but without urgency. He noticed his son’s distraction and murmured, “Squeeze,” to get him back on track.</p><p>Malcolm compressed the bag and began counting in his head again. The EKG began to beep with every beat of the Lieutenant’s sluggish heart.</p><p>Dr. Whitly came to stand beside him, above Gil’s head. He took the resuscitator from the profiler and performed the last squeeze, crumpling the bag extra well in his hand. Then he removed the device from the patient and gave it to Malcolm to hold. In The Surgeon’s other hand was what looked to be an ice pick with a light at the tip of the blade, but Malcolm knew it was called a laryngoscope. The steel didn’t look any less weapon-like in his father’s hold.</p><p>As Dr. Whitly parted his patient’s teeth and began sliding the curved tool into the lieutenant’s mouth, Malcolm felt his panic rise. “You said you’re going to be better,” he reminded him, watching the procedure fearfully. His expression was concealed by his mask, leaving only his eyes to convey his terror. “That you’re not going to kill anymore. Was that true?”</p><p>“It <em> was,” </em>Martin answered, his expression also concealed behind his blue mask.</p><p>Malcolm didn’t like hearing an emphasis on the <em> ‘was. </em> ’ Was his father implying that his previous promise was no longer valid, or was he simply giving an affirming answer to his question? “You orchestrated all this… to <em> prove </em>that to me, right?” he asked carefully.</p><p>If that <em> hadn’t </em> been his original intention, Malcolm implored him to <em> make it </em> his intention.</p><p>Dr. Whitly didn’t answer him. He only slid the tool in further, peering down the officer’s throat as he manipulated his tongue to one side. Malcolm tensed as his father applied some pressure to  leverage open the epiglottis. “Give me that tube behind you."</p><p>Malcolm hesitated to take his attention away, but quickly grabbed the endotracheal tube behind him and removed it from the packaging. Martin took it and slowly lowered it into his patient’s airway. Malcolm grimaced empathetically. His gag reflex didn’t enjoy watching this.</p><p>“You were going to turn me in, weren’t you?” Martin murmured.</p><p>Malcolm remained silent, frozen with shame, guilt, and regret, all layering to form a pressing weight of emotions. “...Dad, I--”</p><p>“No, no, I understand,” Martin interrupted him. “You’re father’s a <em> serial killer, </em> and you shouldn’t trust a <em> thing </em> that he says. Not to mention the incredible trouble you’d find yourself in if anyone ever found out you were willingly <em> helping </em>me.”</p><p>He threaded the tube through his patient’s vocal chords and kept guiding it deeper. “I get it, son,” he assured gently, his eyes squinting above his blue mask. “You don’t have to make excuses or apologize.”</p><p>His sarcastic sympathy was cruel. Malcolm grimaced with an emotional discomfort and pain.</p><p>“Do you care about him?”</p><p>Malcolm hesitated, but not because he didn’t have an answer. He did, he just didn’t want to say it out loud. To his father. <em> Now, </em> when the man had a blade and an obstruction deep in Gil’s throat.</p><p>Dr. Whitly looked over at his son. “Tell me the truth.”</p><p>“Why does it matter?” Malcolm asked with a stubborn strength.</p><p>“Just curious,” Dr. Whitly answered, shaking his head innocently with another squint of his eyes. He wanted to know. And he was in a position where he could <em> demand </em>it, so that’s what he did. “Answer me.”</p><p>Malcolm didn’t meet his eyes, instead staring at Lieutenant Arroyo. “Yes.”</p><p>Martin gazed at his son. “How <em> much?” </em> he challenged darkly.</p><p>Malcolm seared a glare at him. “Enough that I will give you anything you want,” he condemned himself.</p><p>Dr. Whitly held his fiery gaze with a cool one of his own, nodding, “I already told you what I want.”</p><p>A second chance. A relationship with him outside of prison.</p><p>“You’ll have it,” Malcolm growled. “I promise.”</p><p>Dr. Whitly didn’t seem convinced, for he did not continue the intubation procedure.</p><p>Malcolm grew less angry and more desperate. He stepped forward to stand right in front of his father, practically close enough to feel his breath, even with their masks in the way. “I <em> promise. </em> I’m not going to turn you in. I’m not going to let anyone know. I swear it. <em> I swear to God.” </em> If there was anything he could do to prove it to him, he would.</p><p>But there was nothing he could do to prove it right now. He realized Martin had to simply trust him, and hold him to it. Like Malcolm had to do to him in turn.</p><p>After a moment, Martin broke their eye contact to glance at the monitor behind the boy, which showed dropping numbers.</p><p>He nodded at the resuscitator in the profiler’s hand. “Are you going to detach that, or are you going to let him asphyxiate?” he asked, having been unable to proceed this entire time because he’d been waiting on Malcolm's participation. It seemed he’d simply failed to inform the profiler of that fact. “My hands are full, here, son.”</p><p><em> Bastard. </em>Malcolm rushed to twist and pop the plastic mask from the blue bag in his hands. Dr. Whitly attached the bag to the endotracheal tube and gave the combined contraption back to Malcolm before gliding the laryngoscope out of the patient’s throat and setting the tool aside.</p><p>“Squeeze,” he instructed, donning his stethoscope and listening to the airflow inside the patient’s chest. Malcolm squeezed the resuscitator when he was directed to. “Again.” Dr. Whitly moved the diaphragm to another spot. “Again.”</p><p>“Good. Tape that to his cheek.” </p><p>Malcolm fetched some tape as Dr. Whitly detached the bag and connected the endotracheal tube to another one leading to the ventilator machine. He punched in some settings then pulled a instrument cart and stool over to the side where Gil’s penetrating wounds lay embedded.</p><p>“Now, it’s time for some exploratory surgery. My favorite,” Martin announced merrily. He put a surgical face shield on, appearing as if he was about to weld. After changing out gloves, he gestured for Malcolm to, “Grab that retractor and turn on the suction machine.”</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malcolm was essentially performing the job of three assistants at once. He was tasked to watch the monitors, hold the spreaders, <em> and </em>suction the bleeds so the surgical field remained clear, while his father handled vital anatomy with sharp instruments, lightly poking, tugging, suturing, and occasionally dropping fragments of shrapnel in a metal tin. He employed the touch of a detailed painter, though he was one who had been deprived of a canvas for twenty years.</p><p>“Suction.” Martin indicated a spot with the tip of his instrument. Malcolm adjusted the tool in his hand, which was not trembling, for once.</p><p>They worked closely together, hardly blinking behind their visors. Their knuckles occasionally touched, which was unavoidable in the small operating space. Each of their hands were slick with blood. It didn’t take long for them to fall into a symbiotic rhythm where verbal communication was no longer necessary. Where they operated with one cohesive mind. They even started breathing in synchrony with each other. </p><p>As grotesque as the work was, Malcolm was not disturbed by it. The interior landscape of the human body had never been all that disturbing to him, perhaps because he had been introduced to it at a very young age. He’d enjoyed flipping through anatomy picture books as a child with his dad. His dad had made all the complicated parts of a person sound so simple, and he’d made surgery seem like something that wasn’t gross or scary at all.</p><p>But Malcolm did not forget that The Surgeon beside him was a murderer. He did not forget that their patient was Gil. He did not forget that in addition to all of his assistant duties, he needed to watch Dr. Whitly for any malicious ‘accidents.’</p><p>As if he could read his son’s mind, Martin returned to their previous conversation, murmuring beneath his mask, “I <em> want </em>to trust you, Malcolm.”</p><p>The profiler risked a quick glance at him, then watched his hands again. “You can.” His eyes flickered up to the monitors, then back to the sutures. Gil was stable. For now.</p><p>The Surgeon tilted his head, ever so slightly, and not to get a better look at what he was doing.</p><p>Malcolm’s heart rate increased. “I promise you can,” he assured, attempting to curb any curious thoughts that may have been blossoming in his father’s deranged mind.</p><p>“I don't <em> have </em>to be here, doing this,” Martin mumbled distractedly, working more slowly than before.</p><p>“I know.” Malcolm's voice was gentle and cautious. “I’m grateful. I am <em> very </em>grateful and I--”</p><p>“But I couldn’t resist,” Martin continued musing aloud as he clamped another rubbery vein with the delicate scissor-looking hemostat. He had not forgotten that their patient was Gil either. </p><p>“Dad,” Malcolm warned.</p><p>Dr. Whitly allowed the hemostat to rest and grabbed the suturing needle with the forceps, commencing another anastomosis. “Do you have <em> any </em> idea how much self control--?”</p><p>“I believe you,” Malcolm interrupted, elaborating, “I believe what you said, in the repair shop.”</p><p>Martin seemed to slightly surface from his thoughts, pausing from the sutures and asking lowly, “Do you really?”</p><p>The profiler took a breath and corrected, “I <em> want </em>to believe you.”</p><p>“And <em> I </em> want to believe <em> you </em>when you say that you’re not going to release the hounds the second you don’t need my help anymore,” Martin countered.</p><p>“I’m not. I promise, I’m not.”</p><p>“Oh, <em> promises, promises,” </em> The Surgeon sighed with a hint of a growl. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Who can ever really trust promises?” he muttered, continuing to manipulate the tiny needle. “They’re just words.”</p><p>Malcolm knew there was one thing that spoke louder than words. Actions.</p><p>“You’re going to have to give me a chance to prove it to you,” Malcolm informed him. “And I’m going to give you a chance to prove what you promised to me,” he vowed.</p><p>Martin paused, pulling his attention off the juicy sinew and flesh to look at his son. Malcolm returned his gaze and held it evenly.</p><p>“Alright?” the profiler asked, proposing a pact to trust each other and to believe each other --to give each other the opportunity to fulfill their promises. They stared in each other's eyes, searching, asking, answering. Exchanging microscopic truths that were buried in mountainous lies.</p><p>Finally, Martin smiled. “Alright, son.”<br/><br/>Malcolm nodded, and they returned to finish their work.</p><p>However, the profiler wasn't done. “But if you kill someone, you are going <em> straight </em>in to custody,” he threatened calmly. “Understood?”</p><p>Martin grinned under his mask. “Understood.”</p><p>Malcolm continued to watch the monitors, hold the spreaders, and suction the bleeds so the surgical field remained clear while his father handled vital anatomy with sharp instruments.</p><p>The machines steadily continued to beep and monitor Lieutenant Arroyo’s vitals. Malcolm had never seen Gil look so peaceful. So vulnerable. So quiescent. With no smiles or jokes, no orders to go home and get some rest, no bags of chips or pretzels being thrown about. Just silence, and stillness. Like he was already a corpse.</p><p>The profiler had never really thought about what life would be like without him, until recently.</p><p>He almost lost him, and it would have been all his fault.</p><p>But he didn’t lose him.</p><hr/><p>Lieutenant Arroyo surfaced from his sleep right before the profiler’s eyes. Malcolm Bright sat beside the hospital bed. A wave of relief washed over him. He didn't even try to prevent a smile from spreading across his face as he stood up, reaching out to touch Gil’s wrist where a hospital bracelet was fastened loosely.</p><p>“Hey, kid,” Gil exhaled in a hoarse, drugged lethargy. His voice sounded terrible and even with all the pain medication, it was uncomfortable for him to speak. But he spoke anyway. “Are you okay?”</p><p>Malcolm nodded, struggling to keep his expression under control.</p><p>It had worked. Their emergency operation had worked.</p><p>Gil had survived.</p><p>“Good.” The lieutenant blinked up at him, soaking in the sight of the profiler’s face. It brought a renewed life to the old man. “What happened?”</p><p>“There was a bomb hidden in the junkyard,” Malcolm explained solemnly. “It was a trap. John sent us into a trap.”</p><p>But he hadn’t done it all by himself. He had help.</p><p>“That son of a bitch,” Gil rasped tiredly. After a moment, he asked, “The others?”</p><p>“JT and Dani are okay. They’re being treated just a few rooms over.” Malcolm blinked to keep his eyes clear of excess moisture. “But uh…. Six others died. Closest to the blast.” The profiler was unable to hold Gil’s gaze. He looked down and gripped the edge of the hospital bed to gain control over his shame.</p><p>Just over twenty-four hours after The Surgeon had escaped, and already, <em> ten </em> people had died. Malcolm’s only comfort was that they hadn’t died <em> directly </em>by his father’s hand, but it was a frail comfort.</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” Gil whispered mournfully.</p><p>Malcolm couldn’t contain it anymore. He crumbled. “I’m <em> so </em>sorry.” The profiler’s voice cracked as he squeezed his eyes shut.</p><p>He couldn’t even describe what he was sorry for. Signing the documents to pardon Watkins. Sending the team into danger. Running off on his own against their repeated pleas not to. Nearly getting Gil killed, and then nearly bringing him to a different kind of death in the process of trying to save him. Failing to turn in his father. Making a <em> deal </em>with his father, which was almost worse than making a deal with The Devil, either lawyer or literal.</p><p>He felt the lieutenant’s hand settle on his. “Don’t. Malcolm, it’s not your fault.”</p><p>It <em> was. </em> Gil didn’t know that, now, but it was <em> entirely </em>Malcolm's fault.</p><p>The list went on and on, full of mistakes he may not even know about or remember. He’d never be able to scratch all of them off his conscience.</p><p>But he’d never stop trying to.</p><p>Malcolm took a large breath and moved his hand to grip Gil’s. “I need to tell you something.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>The profiler opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again and croaked, “I love you.”</p><p>He didn’t say those three little words as often as he should. He’d failed to say them before, and Malcolm knew how close he’d come to not having another chance to say such a thing to the man who had always been there for him when he needed him the most.</p><p>The lieutenant’s face spread into a sincere smile, his mustache brushing against his nasal tube. “I love you too, kid.”</p><p>They stared in each other's eyes, reassuring, healing, soothing. Exchanging looks that were peaceful and happiness-inducing.</p><p>Another voice interrupted their tender moment with a gasp, <em> “Gil?” </em></p><p>Jessica Whitly was at the doorway, clad in something weather-appropriate yet still expensive, colorful, and runway-worthy. She swooped into the room to stand beside her son, tossing her Gucci bag on the chair that the profiler had previously been sitting in. “Oh, <em> God, </em> what happened to you? Malcolm said there’d been an accident, but-- <em> did you break your neck?” </em></p><p>“No,” Gil murmured with a broken chuckle, blushing red with embarrassment as he became aware of the amount of gauze stuck to his throat, which seemed excessive, to him. He felt as if they’d wrapped an entire pillow around him. “At least, I hope not.” He glanced at Malcolm again, who assured with a weary smile, “Just some stitches.”</p><p>“Are you sure you’re alright, sweetheart?” Mrs. Whitly touched her son’s arm. Malcolm nodded.</p><p>“He was late to the party,” Gil joked in his newly acquired but temporary smoker’s voice. “And it was a good thing, too.”</p><p>“Yes it was,” Jessica sighed, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed beside Gil’s leg. “You’re both going to give me a <em> heart attack </em> one of these days!” She scolded. Her hand came to rest over Gil’s knee. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”</p><p>The profiler stared at her affectionate gesture and smiled. He also suspected that he should leave.</p><p>“What happened? I heard one of the nurses talking about some sort of <em> explosion!” </em></p><p>“Our investigation led us to a junkyard... and there was a bomb,” Gil explained, relaying what he’d been told.</p><p><em> “A bomb!?” </em> Jessica gawked. That was her shocked-but-also-pissed-off face. <em> “Did Martin--?” </em></p><p>“No, no, he’s….” Gil shook his head as best he could, which was not at all, and glanced at Malcolm. The boy didn’t meet his eyes, remaining silent. Gil hesitated, but told the woman, “We have reason to believe he was… taken.”</p><p>“Taken?”</p><p>“Possibly by another vengeful person connected to one of his victims.” Fearing it would usher bad memories to return to the forefront of the tormented woman’s mind, Gil hesitated to compare, “Like The Carousel Killer.”</p><p>“Oh.” Jessica blinked. “<em> Well.” </em></p><p>The three of them were silent for a moment, until Jessica grumbled, “Maybe this time they can stab him <em> themselves.” </em></p><p>Gil smirked. Malcolm didn’t.</p><p>“I need a drink,” he sighed, then corrected, “Uh-- <em> water. </em> Not alcohol. You want anything, mom? Or, Gil?”</p><p>The lieutenant tried to shake his head again while Jessica answered distractedly, “No, dear, I’m okay.” Before the profiler could take one step away from them, she touched his arm again and ordered, “Stay close. The last thing we need is your psycho father stealing you away when Gil’s not able to rescue you.”</p><p>Malcolm pressed a pathetic smile between his lips and left. But he lingered by the doorway for a moment, looking back to see the two fully immersed in each other.  He watched them be affectionate with each other, watched them smile and joke. It repaired the broken pieces inside of him like he was drinking a river of glue.</p><p>The three of them were a family. Perhaps not an entirely ordinary one, but something close, at least. One that was <em> good. </em> One that felt <em> right. </em></p><p>Malcolm’s phone vibrated.</p><p>It wasn't his smartphone. It was his new yet ancient flip phone.</p><p>He froze. Then he pulled it out of his pocket, flipped it open, and read a text message.</p><p><em> ‘So?’ </em> it read.</p><p>It wasn't long before another one followed.</p><p>‘Will he live to die another day?’</p><p>Malcolm matched his teeth together. Then he looked up at the scene in front of him again, no longer able to appreciate it as something safe and beautiful and everlasting.</p><p>Soon, a small smirk took over his expression. He slyly snapped a photo. Then hit <em> send. </em>He felt as if he’d just shot a digital bullet, and he knew it would not fail to hit its mark.</p><p>A reply followed. ‘Oh, good. Seeing that makes me so happy.'</p><p>He could hear his father’s sarcasm clear as day. Malcolm hoped he’d ruined it.</p><p>The profiler left to fetch a cup of water, but remained close to Gil’s hospital room. After a few moments, he sent another message. ‘Shall I tell them who they have to thank?’</p><p>His father replied ‘Only if you’re willing to admit your own helpful contributions.’</p><p>Malcolm’s smirk fell, and guilt washed over him again. His father had used a very specific word. Malcolm didn't need to work to decode it. The profiler knew he’d compromised himself by going to that repair shop, and by participating in that surgery, and then not telling anyone a single thing, as he’d promised. He was stuck. He was trapped. He couldn't tell them.</p><p>But it had been the only way.</p><p>The phone vibrated again. </p><p>‘Thank you, by the way.’</p><p>Malcolm shook his head and began to put it away, but it buzzed before his hand abandoned it in his pocket. Dr. Whitly was going to be the type of person who texted <em> constantly, </em> he just knew it. He <em> dreaded </em>it. Sighing, he removed the phone and opened it once more. </p><p>‘We make a pretty good team.’</p><p>Seeing those words made the young man feel sick to his core. He didn’t want them to be a team. He didn’t like doing things with his dad. Not anymore. Not since he found out the dark truth, all those years ago.</p><p>But before he’d found out...</p><p>In a way… this felt a little <em> right </em> and <em> good, </em> too. In a tiny, microscopic way. <br/><br/>Before, Malcolm had been deprived of contact with his father. But now he sensed an incoming overload, and he didn’t know how he was going to handle it. Mentally, emotionally, physically, all of the above. They would need to establish some boundaries and figure out a way to make this ridiculous relationship work without it driving the boy insane.</p><p>Another sign of life from the phone.</p><p>‘Your turn, son.’</p><p>Malcolm stared at the device for a while, but eventually typed a deliberate, ‘Thank you.’</p><p>‘That’s my boy.’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope you enjoyed reading this fic! I didn't keep it as short as I originally intended, but I feel very satisfied with how it turned out. I have a few 'continuations' planned that will branch off of this one, so keep an eye out for those if you're interested to see what could come from this. I will link them here when they are posted.</p><p>If you'd like to check out my other Prodigal Son fics, visit this page: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/works?fandom_id=31672270</p><p>Feel free to comment if you'd like to. I love receiving comments and interacting with readers. Please give me a heads-up if you spy a typo.</p><p>If you'd like to be notified when I post new works, you can subscribe to me as an author on my profile! Feel free to follow me on one of my various Tumblr blogs, also listed on my profile. If you have any fic requests or want to trade art for a fic, you can reach me at jennifernapier1142@gmail.com.</p>
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